


Repayment

by sentimentsandsemblance (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Feels, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Pining Derek, Protective Derek, Sheriff Stilinski Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 22:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 24,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6168421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sentimentsandsemblance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles sighs, feeling that the upcoming job is something that he's going to regret, "The job, you still got room for me to do it?" He packs his bags. He's going back to Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I May Need You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone. So, I'm sure most of you are kinda mad, if not really mad about my slow updates, but let me give a rundown why I have been really slow in updates. I don't have wi-fi, here's the thing. I'm actually dependent on mobile data, so I use my phone's personal hotspot to get internet. Because of this, I use my phone a lot, and a month ago, my phone got busted due to the swelling of my battery all thanks to four years of overcharging and dropping the sad device. So basically, it pushed the screen out of its body and before I knew it, you can basically take the screen out. So as any sane person does, I sent it for repair, and I forgot to mention this but the LCD screen too had problems, so that had to be repaired, and then when it was all done, the motherboard had problems too. MOTHER. And my backup phone too is busted, so I have no choice but to go inactive for the rest of the one month. The one month isn't intentional because parts needed to be imported and bla bla bla. Thus, I received my phone on March 2.
> 
> So, over the month of inactivity, I've been writing and this story has become a sudden inspiration to write about. This is definitely a different one, because I have no idea how its going to end, and I have now developed a proper style after re-reading The Maze Runner and some passages about being a writer, I decided to adapt a style where I will write less per chapter, because I imagine reading a history book, where I feel threatened by the long and nearly boring passages (I minor in History and love history by the way, so don't get me wrong.). So, to diminish this problem, I decided to give you a breakdown about the story. I have 20 stories (including The Meadow, Disturbance and Return) in the mind and they're all in the progress of writing, so you can all understand the reason why my ideas sometimes haven't been updated as promised. There are days I feel elated because I got the idea, and days where I don't so I progress to another which sparks the elation in me.
> 
> This story is something I didn't expect to write, because as I write, I too have been doing most of the actions on how someone deals with loss usually acts. So if you read the 5th chapter where I mention about holding the cup tighter, it was basically me holding my cup of hot chocolate tighter whenever I look at things with envy or sadness or basically just thinking about things like an emo whacko. I currently study drama sure, but I extend my horizons to psychology, where my love for angst has grown at large. I have been watching movies and seen a lot of psychological ones and I begin to adapt them into the story.
> 
> I love stories that have multiple chapters because it makes me so excited to finish it, and the more I read ones with more chapters like James Dashner's books, I realize that they have little words and so I thought, "I'll do it like that,". I did some references and have seen that its better to write shorter so that the reader doesn't feel threatened by the length (that's what he said. Sorry.) of the story. And I don't know about you, but to be relatable, it's hard knowing that people don't go through half the shit we writers have to make it look relatable. Moreover, I want my stories to build connections with the reader, not barriers.
> 
> I'm going on too long about my explanation, so I hope this settles everything.
> 
> I think with this story being published, I have now adapted a definite style of writing, so I thank you for the continuous reviews and support and hope these first 22 chapters will make it up for the loss time.

I MAY NEED YOU.

“I’m busy,” says Stiles through the phone, his patience teetering to the edge of frustration. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to salvage the last bit of his composure before having the last straw.

“On break?” whines Lydia in a querulous tone, “Stiles, we get it. You have a Master’s, recently may I add, but seriously, take a break. Just help me out with this, will you?”

“I will not sacrifice the next year of my life for this job, Martin,” snaps Stiles, “And so what if I have a Master’s, I have high targets, alright?”

Lydia snorts in disbelief. Stiles has always been this way, and undeniably so. Burdening him with such a task just puts Stiles into pondering; out of all people Lydia Martin has in mind, she chooses the busiest guy to do the job.

“I’m in Peru now, Lydia,” argues Stiles.

“Then come back. Plane tickets at this moment are getting cheaper,” retorts Lydia.

“Big talk coming from the girl who has had 98 percent of her life insured. By Jackson, may I add?” Lydia grumbles through the receiver, curmudgeon with the Stiles’ stubbornness. Stiles has always been a hamper in people’s calls and what can he do? Best chance for him to move on is just move on anyway.

“Fine,” sighs Lydia, “I’ll just get someone else to do this,” before Stiles could get a word to give his apology (which is unlikely) or assurance, he hears the line click and Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear, his lips moved to the side in half annoyance and regret. He rolls his eyes before putting the phone away on the bed. Maybe Lydia had been right about him being such a workaholic. Studying keeps him sane. He had just lost his father to heart complications, a problem Stiles cannot help but wish he could would have grasped the nettle instead of chiding him with basic health tips like reducing meat intake. Losing his father is a deathblow, something he almost gotten over after his mother’s but in the course of 26 years? A 10 years gap from each death isn’t something he envisioned, even it had been 2 years ago.

Ever since then, he has been more caved in, and pours his grief towards his work and studies. Vacation­ing would only make him feel sad than before, because absence of work and preoccupation will only let him ponder on the events of his life, and that includes the time with both him and his dad. He hasn’t gotten over the whole thing yet, and he wonders how long will that take him to move on.

The phone rings, and Stiles straightens up at the sound. He picks the phone up and stares at it. ‘Unknown Number’ it says, and he can already tell who the caller is. _Confidentiality purpose_ , his ass. If it is confidential, they needn’t put the contact information on their magazine and commercials. Idiots.

He sighs before sliding the phone to answer. “Hello?” he answers.

“Is this Stiles Stilinski?” says the caller.

“Speaking,” he replies tersely.

“Ah yes, well this is Eve from Harvard University, and we would like to apologize,” Stiles keeps a stiff lip upon hearing the words, “But we have no choice but to postpone your entrance to PhD course for two years,”

Stiles flusters at the words conveyed. _Postponed?_ “May I ask why?”

“Ah, well,” replies the clerk, “We have received words from the professors that it is time you take a break. You see, they are concerned,”

“Concerned?” replies Stiles confusedly.

“They are concerned about your health, sir. You have received your Masters just a few months ago, and you applied for it almost immediately after you’ve gotten your degree and this time Masters. We fear that taking another quick step to PhD without proper recovery may jeopardize your road to getting PhD,” she replies, her professional tone almost wavering as she voices out the words from the professor. Stiles stays silent, his mind obstinately denying the concerns raised from the professors. Since when did health become a priority to them? If it were a priority, which it’s hell isn’t, they should have guided their students to do a thesis when they stepped in for their degree. No wonder the lack of doctors and specialists is evident. “Sir?” the clerk asks worriedly.

Stiles alerted at the sound, and clears his throat. “Yes, well. Thanks. I suppose I’ll take their word for it,” He can’t defeat a board of professors. Besides, his experience with the professors hasn’t really gone sugar and rainbows, especially with the times where he overworked himself to a breakdown.

“That’s great to hear, sir. We look forward to see you next time for your PhD,” replies Eve with elation to her voice, as if she’s sure that he will refusal from the man himself. He hums back, not really feeling the same sentiment as Eve. “We will be in touch to see your progress on your time off, sir. The professors have voiced out that they may take you back should you follow their advice,” Great. A bargain. Time off for a few years of classes.

They exchanged their goodbyes, and Stiles lowers the phone towards his lap. He hunches his back, wondering what can he do during this time. He sure as hell can’t do nothing. He will be driven insane, and he doesn’t want to see a therapist as compensation of his vacation. Staying in Peru wouldn’t be ideal for him, as he has already explored majority of the state.

He could go back. He hasn’t anyway, but then, that would also be considered as a vacation. He grips the phone a little tighter, his mind cursing at himself for letting people be concerned for such trivial matter. The fools that fiddle while Rome burns. If anything, he’s easing the burden.

He walks around his room, wondering what alternatives may he be able to take to make sure his time is well spent. He looks at his phone and mentally runs down the contacts of who could provide him with tasks. Most of his contacts are of acquaintances and if only his dad were alive, maybe a few criminal cases can be assisted. He shakes his head, and plops on the bed miserably.

He groans audibly before retrieving his phone from the bed. He dials the number and the ringing goes on once, then twice and finally the picks up on the third ring. “What, Stiles?”

Stiles sighs, feeling that the upcoming job is something that he’s going to regret, “The job, you still got room for me to do it?”

 

 


	2. Clouds & Lands

CLOUDS AND LANDS.

“Gate 5, sir,” says the stewardess politely before handing him his boarding ticket. He gives a cursory smile before picking up his luggage and entering inside the waiting area. The airport is chockablock with people of different ethnicities, heights and appearance. Trust Peru to have the widest airport because it Stiles almost suffocated with the crammed space he had to go through. He huffs before slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Lydia immediately took Stiles’ offer to help, and couldn’t wait to let his job be commenced once had settled back home in Beacon Hills. Lydia is on vacation, and just of late, received a promotion. She’s been appointed with a job in the UK, something Jackson couldn’t help but feel giddy about since he had longed to visit - and stay - in the UK. She’s taken the liberty of taking a few months - almost a year, actually - off of work, hoping to find a place to live along with acclimating to the European lifestyle. Stiles would’ve congratulated her, but the job he’s offered made him have a change of heart. Childish, yes.

He steps onto the escalator, heading down to the lower floor. He looks around with a bored look, not really moved by the happy, ebullient faces of the children. He’s never rode a plane until the age of 18, just after he finished high school. He’s missed that phase, though he can’t help but feel almost sad when he starts to imagine himself being at the age of 8 being guided by his mother and father on a trip to somewhere exotic or fun like Canada or Spain. He clicked his tongue at the imagination.

The boarding gates are all divided with numbers. Stores fill the room, with many of them selling alcohols to confectionaries. Stiles doesn’t seem to want to stomach any sweets or liquor. Maybe a hot chocolate or coffee can beat the gelid temperature of the airport. He doesn’t see eye to eye with the airport officials’ decision to have the temperature low to the minuses. Sure, Peru may be a warm country, but this is preposterous.

He stops by Coffee Beans, and ordered himself a simple hot beverage. He doesn’t stick around to give his thanks to the server as he took the cup and sat down on the nearest seating area. He hates going to airports to be honest. Waking up at a dastardly early hour to miss the traffic jam and then have his eye bags stinging the nerves like pricks whenever he blinks. It’s 9 am at the moment, and the tradition of waking up at 7 has been long forgotten the moment he left high school.

He slouches in his seat while taking small sips of his beverage. Boarding time doesn’t happen for another hour, so he gives a bored and sour look at the people passing by. The happiness that they display on their faces makes him feel upset, the feeling of being free of any form of internal or external problems something he has gone sour grapes on. Working on his courses was his form of relieving the problems, and with that being out of his picture, he has now resorted to a job that he reluctantly wants to partake.

He can’t wait to get on the plane, though, because his eyes are on the verge of have them shut. He can’t afford to do that, though, as no one is going to wake him for his boarding of his flights. Thank goodness the coffee he’s drinking is caffeinated, for he would have snored embarrassingly in the middle of a coffee/lounge area, and he doesn’t want to walk around either. The airport stores didn’t really catch his eyes and shopping is something he doesn’t want to do by his own volition. At least he’s got the fridge magnet of Peru to keep; better than nothing.

“All passengers boarding the flight from Peru to Los Angeles, please make your way to Gate 5,” says the announcer. Stiles lazily gets up from his seat, unable to wait for him to get this over with. He sees a group of people congregating to the aforementioned gate, and he can tell that the plane he’s boarding is going to be crammed with passengers. Don’t forget the babies. Fucking crap.

He lines up and prepares his travel documents. He moves whenever the line moves, and Stiles’ body is itching to be in a sitting orientation and just sleep it off throughout the flight. He’s grateful the phone and pair of earphones is with him, for he cannot bear to have noises and distractions nipping in the bud of him sleeping.

He passes his ticket and passport to the stewardess for verification. She rips the ticket cursorily before passing it and his passport back to him. He walks in the cockpit and heads into the plane. He glances down to inspect his ticket and reads his seat number. Another stewardess who’s been tasked with welcoming the passengers, gives a smile and greeting, to which Stiles replies with a short smile before passing by and then walks on to find his seat. He doesn’t take long, though. 3A is the seat number. No surprise that Lydia purchased the first class seat. He places his bag in front of him and sits comfortably before glancing at the window. He can see the asphalt covered land and the windows of the airport and some vehicles shipping in the checked in luggage, and the fueling up of the plane. He breathes out before buckling his seatbelt.

The people walks on to find their seat, and Stiles could see the dirty looks given by the children, who openly complained on why they couldn’t sit at the front, where the space is more open and with pillows included. Stiles would have laughed at their insipid comments, but if he did, his laugh would come off as a sneer or a bark, to which he be at loggerheads and facing possible eviction from the flight. He hears the irregular clicking of the baggage compartment being closed by the flight attendants and the typical inquiries by the passengers.

He numbs them out and waits tightens his seatbelt, as if his mood isn’t the only thing he wants to kill.

The plane takes off and disconnects its contact with the land. Stiles’ head is slightly pushed back due to the friction and gravity before return to normal when the planes readjusts its orientation. The protocols of the plane are given by through the television installed. Stiles ignored the recording and leaned his head to the window. No one is sitting next to him, and Stiles places his bag on the seat, giving his leg some space to move.

He glances outside the window, with the background completely changed. The flight’s going to be a couple hours long, and Stiles is alright with it. The muffled sounds of children are no spoke in the wheel, as he can fully rest without feeling bothered.

The flight attendant brings in the cart filled with food, and moves to all the seats with patience. Her courteousness can be heard; the soft voices of the passengers is barely audible to Stiles’ ear. He doesn’t seem eager to digest anything today; the coffee he had consumed had been enough for him, despite the ineffectiveness of its caffeine. Trust Coffee Beans to provide strong coffee.

The flight attendant finally moves to Stiles’ seating row, and she asks, “Would you like the cancer?”

Stiles’ head almost catapults upon hearing the offer. He blinks at the flight attendant before asking slowly, “Sorry?”

“Would you like the cancer?” she repeats. Stiles’ lips form a small ‘o’ at her; wondering what in the world is she trying to get across. The flight attendant’s hand lifts up a can to him, and she repeats again, “The can, sir?”

Stiles closes his eyes in both relief and annoyance. He doesn’t express his annoyance, though as he gives a nervous chuckle and then politely refuses the offer. The flight attendant understandably smiles at him before moving the cart without any hint of annoyance or prejudice. She doesn’t seem put off by her manner of asking the question. _Probably a habit,_ he thinks.

He plugs in his earphones and then rests his eyes slowly before letting the sleep take him.

“Good morning to all passengers, we will be landing in Los Angeles, California shortly. Please return to your respective seats and buckle your seatbelts. The lavatory is off limits, and tables are to be lifted back into its original position. Electronics are to be switched off at this time. Thank you,” the announcer says with a rehearsed voice. Stiles wakes up slowly and rubs his face gently. He stares the exterior of his window, and can see the systematic roads of Los Angeles, along with the vehicles that are using it. They almost look like colored ants, from Stiles’ viewpoint. He yawns silently before scratching his head. He unplugs his earphones and then keeps them, before waiting to hear and feel the turbulent landing of the plane.

The plane finally lands the stewardess goes on with her announcement about making sure that smoking is still a prohibition, and that electronics should only be switched on once the seatbelt lighting is turned off. Stiles sits patiently and doesn’t get up as excited at the travelers that are on board. He hears the clicking of the baggage compartments and the wheels that roll on top of it. They wait in line without patience and Stiles watches them move out of the plane when door opens.

He fiddles with his phone while waiting for the line to clear out. He finally picks his bag up and alights the plane, ignoring the thank yous that were expressed by the flight attendants and pilots. He walks out of the cockpit and finally arrives on the boarding floor. He gets his travel documents checked, with the officer giving him a smile and welcoming words of his return to California.

He walks down to the arrival halls, and see the expectant faces of the people waiting for their loved ones. He sees cardboard signs with various names written and held lovingly by the people. If only his father were there to hold one for his return, then maybe he wouldn’t be as sour as he is now. He would have come back with exhaustion but a semblance of comfort and home.

This is probably why he hates vacation. He’s not on tourist, just a lonely man who has decided reluctantly to come home under the cajolery of his friend. He walks out and sees the strawberry blonde hair that will always be etched into Stiles’ mind. He sees Jackson behind her, and Lydia moves away from him to hug him. Jackson joins in, giving Stiles a brotherly hug. He’s changed since high school, a side of his that he’s seen once in a blue moon.

“Welcome home,”


	3. Nostalgia Unwelcomed

NOSTALGIA UNWELCOMED

The car ride back to Beacon Hills is as slow as it can get. And Stiles sits behind the car with nothing but a pensive look outside the window. It has been more than a year since he’s seen the sky of California; and the beaches, factories, and buildings bring him a sense of nostalgia that he hasn’t gotten around to see since his father’s passing. Jackson drives the car with safety, and Lydia chats nineteen to the dozen about how Stiles’ going to enjoy his time in Beacon Hills. He only hums in reply.

Beacon Hills hasn’t changed much in the course of two years. Change is a rare sight in a small community. Any change from a norm that has been cultivated into a tradition will be a departure from the life that they have grown accustomed to; even if it is the government that has effected a new rule. The houses and his alma mater, Beacon Hills High School, remains almost untouched by time. Stiles wishes there were changes, just something to distract him.

Lydia grows quiet the moment Jackson grabs her hand, and she understands why. The sight of Stiles’ face of the town brings a slight guilt and pang to her heart. She sees the lips of Stiles’ parting as he stares at the window, the memory of his father taking his last breath remains vivid in their memories, and she wonders how he’ll react when he sees the street that he lived in for the past 26 years. The interior of the car remains silent, and Stiles doesn’t seem unnerved by it. What he is unnerved, is the fact how many people manage to move on from a loss of role figures in their lives. Lydia may only understand divorce from her parents, and Jackson . . . maybe he’ll understand a sentiment of that too. He is adopted, after all. But whether he’s adopted because of his biological parents’ death or incapability to feed him is a question unresolved.

The two of them - with the possible exception of Jackson - do not understand the effects of death, especially at a young age. Almost too young. Being 26 is the age where your life has already started, where most seniors would dub it as the best part of someone’s life. Stiles shakes his head imperceptibly; the frustration still fresh in his mind.

He doesn’t even realize the speed of the car slowing down. Stiles wouldn’t mind anyway, having wished his life was a bit slower. If it were a bit slower, he could have foreseen the events played before him, and delay the outcomes better.

Jackson drives the vehicle to their home, and see the grandiose quality to it. Stiles gives an eye raise at the sight, unsurprised by the size of the house. Jackson and Lydia are both financially sufficient - surfeit is more like it - and to spend it freely is merely like their lives’ daily bread and butter. The house isn’t big, just the way its presented makes it look lavish. Quality wood for the door, bushes trimmed into different animal figures and flower beds taken care attentively flourish with an assortment of flowers.

There is an uncomfortable silence in the car after Jackson turns off the ignition, and Lydia and Jackson look at each other hesitantly. Having Stiles around under the circumstances that supervened is suggestive to a catatonic child in the car; where the parents are too afraid to make a parenting move lest they want their child screaming with a fit.

Lydia deals the feeling far better than Jackson, as she breathes in before saying, “We’re here,”

And Stiles’ shoulder twitches.


	4. Eavesdrop.

EAVESDROP

Remember when I said the home is grandiose? The interior only makes the word sound like an understatement.

They leave the car, and walk towards the porch. Jackson unlocks the door, and the trio enter the house without any noise. The interior is filled with the up-to-date technology. Kitchen is completed with a counter, stoves that are of the best quality and fridges that can open up to multiple sections. The living room feels grand rather than how it looks. Sofas’ made of leather, with the television thin as paper. The windows are covered with sheer curtains, obscuring the visions of the neighbors. The house has stairs that leads up to the rooms, and the walls are hung with photos of the couple’s wedding photo, to which Stiles didn’t attend.

“Make yourself at home,” says Lydia.

Jackson and Lydia walks past him, and Stiles sets the bag on the floor; taking a seat on the sofa, awaiting for his set of instructions. It’s April now, and the season slowly transitions to spring. He stares at the magazines on the coffee table, unperturbed by the fact that they are of fashion and interior decorating topics. He looks outside the window, where he wonders what could he do during his so called break. He never intended to be back in Beacon Hills, where his home is located just a stone’s throw away. He still claims ownership on the house, but he’s never gotten about to visit ever since his dad died. Funny how people almost thought that the house’s abandoned. Abandoned, in the middle of two other houses. Comical. The place is probably in dust right now.

“I need to use the bathroom,” says Stiles.

“It’s just upstairs, first door on the left,” replies Jackson. Stiles nods before heading upstairs. He climbs up and sees the hallway to few rooms. A room for Stiles is going to be one of them, and he doesn’t seem all thrilled about having to bring in a few clothes every now and then. The job is simple; taking care of their house. Lydia can’t afford to have snoopy maids taking care of the place, and most of her friends - sans Stiles - aren’t available to help her.

He washes his hands and relieves himself. He leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and heads downstairs. He hears an ongoing conversation, and eavesdrops on what they have to say.

“Are you up the pole, Lydia? Hiring Stiles?” exclaims Jackson in a whisper.

“Alright, I know. I get it. He’s lost his father,”

“And mother,” cuts in Jackson.

“Yeah, that too. I didn’t think this through. At least he’s here and so far he’s okay,”

“Yeah?” asks Jackson, “What happens when he passes by the police department and then his old home? He may be living here, but he hasn’t exactly sold his home to anyone, visit the goddamn place nor has have the notion to let go of his memories of his dad. He’s been giving Beacon Hills dirty looks the moment we drove into the area; you know?”

“Look, he’s all we have for this,” reasons Lydia, “He hasn’t been here for more than 2 years. Let’s just let him get used to be here. Who knows, this will be a way for him to move on,” “Have you forgotten how he never wants to return here?”

“He’s never really said it, but from the way you mention him giving dirty looks implies it well,”

Jackson sighs audibly, ‘You know Stiles isn’t going to enjoy this?”

“I know that, but he didn’t enjoy being rejected of his application to continue his studies either and you and I both know I can’t afford some maid to take care of our place when it rots with dusts. This is a win-win situation, for the both of us. The house is kept safe, and Stiles will get better when he lives here. Maybe this will be a chance for him to recover,”

“Fine,” concedes Jackson, “We’ll just keep frequent contacts with him, alright? I worry for him. He’s almost like a body without a vessel,”

“Last time I checked, you never had any love for the man,” retorts Lydia.

“He’s got no one else, Lydia. His parents have passed away, and I’m adopted. I understand the feeling of not having a proper family, let alone living ones that time. I may not know if my parents are still alive, but what I understand is the lack of parental figures. He’s lost his mom at 14, now his dad at 24. That’s too young,”

“Way too young,” finishes Lydia with a somber tone, “And you’re right. He’s almost a vegetable, being pensive and all. At least this keeps him busy as anything. If worse comes to worst, we’ll just have Scott be here for him,”

“He’s in Paris with Liam, why the hell do we bother him?”

“Because he’s his best friend, Whittemore. Maybe not as close as before but there’s some emotional support, right? His mom’s still at the hospital, so she can always drop by for him,”

Stiles shuts his eyes while sitting down on the stairs steps, his mind drowning out the rest of the conversation. He hangs his head low after hearing their conversation. Both of them have a point. Not astute, but not inaccurate either. He sighs before standing up and clamor the stairs down.


	5. We'll Wait.

WE’LL WAIT.

“Hey, Stiles. Hope you’re doing well, son. I’m okay here in Beacon Hills, and I can’t wait to see you in two months. Melissa’s got some real food cooking for all of us, and don’t worry, we’re not going to break the rule we both have. I’ll be hearing from you soon. Love you,”

The recording clicks its end, and Stiles lowers his phone onto his lap. His dad’s is as cheeky as he is. Always stubborn when it comes to pressing issue. He closes his eyes, trying to prevent the stinging of his eyes from turning into tears. “You’re always a good liar, dad,” he says into the silence, “I miss you,”

He locks his phone before leaving it on the nightstand. His phone has become his prize possession. Forget photographs, his remembrance has a voice. A voice he can play back almost every time he wants. He can see his father’s smiling face, and he can vividly remember his eyes; the nose and the wrinkles that form whenever he makes an expression but as he gets older, he always wracks his brain to hear his father’s voice. And the voicemail is the only method he can find closure.

Night falls in Beacon Hills, and Lydia and Jackson are downstairs. Stiles was shown into his new room, where he will be spending most of his time during their absence. It’s fairly large and almost resembles the master’s bedroom. He placed his bag on the bed, unloading the contents and keeping them into their wardrobes.

He hears Lydia hollering him for dinner. He leaves his room, leaving the phone behind in his nightstand. He straightens his mind, hoping that the bored façade will be almost permanent when the two sees him. He can’t bear to show his helplessness, and the more Stiles spends time being in Beacon Hills, he can feel the charade cracking, like an actor losing his cool whenever he fumbles his line or hears an audience member whispering his comments.

He walks down the stairs and watches Jackson setting the table. He smiles when Stiles makes his appearance, and Stiles replies back with a weak smile. Seeing Jackson in this light will take time to acclimatize. Jackson didn’t turn soft on him until the news of his father’s death, and just when everything has been settled and all, Stiles left; leaving no room for the blond to show his kind side.

Lydia comes into the kitchen with a bowl. Her hands have been covered with kitchen gloves and she sets the Christmas red bowl on the table, and removing the said gloves after. She gives a smile at Stiles, and returns to the kitchen. Jackson sits down, then invites Stiles to join him with a gesture. Stiles takes a vacant seat for his own and looks to see the bowl containing lasagna. He stares at his plate for a moment, and then to the window, where he grows pensive.

Jackson cannot help but feel uncomfortable of Stiles’ silence. No one really is used to him being this withdrawn. It’s like he has lost his foundation; his rock that was in the form of a parental figure, and Jackson is unsure on how to consolidate him. Condolences don’t mean anything at this time.

“So, how’s Peru?” asks Jackson, hoping the icebreaker will be enough to deviate his attention.

Stiles breathes in after his threading his thoughts, and lays his attention to Jackson, “It’s good. Got you and Lyd a fridge magnet,” he replies laconically, “Sorry, I should have gotten something better but I didn’t really expect to be here, after you know,”

Jackson nods at him, his face relaxing at the casual tone of Stiles, “Heard about it from Lydia. Sorry to hear about your application being postponed,”

Stiles gives him a shrug, and a pause came in next. Lydia comes in with her hands clear of gloves, “Alright, boys. Shall we?”

“Yeah,” answers Jackson, “I’ll help with the serving,” He places a slice of the lasagna on Stiles’ plate gently. Stiles gives his thanks before the three tuck in their meal. Casual conversation comes in next, with Stiles trying to act as friendly as possible. He can’t help but feel annoyed of the niceties being thrown between the two, but you know; bullies change,

“So when are you guys leaving?” asks Stiles, his eyes glancing up to their faces for a brief second.

“Well, since you’ve decided to accept the offer last minute, we actually postponed the trip to next week, but then we moved it back to Friday, which is two days from now,” replies Lydia. Stiles nods before taking another bite of his food.

“Congrats on your promotion, though,” says Stiles. Lydia nearly stops when she hears the kindness of Stiles on the table being played. She is almost sure she will never hear that side of Stiles again and only lowers her forkful of lasagna by a few fraction before settling it on the plate. Jackson too, feels the same, with his chewing growing slow when he hears the congratulation from Stiles. Stiles doesn’t seem to be bothered by the sudden stares. In fact, he doesn’t even notice that the two of them are staring at him. “Your cooking’s great, by the way,” he adds.

Lydia swallows and then smiles, “Thank you,”. She takes a bite of her food, and can feel her right eye growing teary upon the compliment. Jackson smiles at him, and the couple resume their eating.

Stiles looks at the photos hung across the corridors, his head tilting left then right as he reads them one by one. One photo shows Lydia and Jackson in the forest, with their smiling faces and wedding attires fit to perfection. The bouquet of flowers never leaves Lydia’s hand and Stiles blinks at the photo, thinking that that’s the feeling he used to have. A feeling where he is safe, insured, protected and most of all, happy. His eyes lower to the wooden wall, feeling the wave of dizziness coming into his mind.

“That was in the Preserve,” says Jackson. Stiles almost jumps when he hears the voice, not really expecting his presence to be clear, “A year of engagement, and not one day do I wish we can relive those moments,”

“I thought you both were married,” interjects Stiles.

“Well, to both of us, we are. But legally, we’re still engaged. And we’re still happy with our decision to be engaged. Not many people enjoy their engagement. Always about the wedding and reveling the married status,” he muses.

Stiles stays silent at the proclamation, letting Jackson gloat on his happiness for a few moments, “Lydia wanted to invite you to the wedding. We had everything planned out. We both did, but it was Scott who decided it wasn’t the best decision,”

Stiles turns his head to Jackson. “Why not?” he asks with a hint of confusion.

Jackson looks back at him, and the tilts his head to the front, “You lost your dad,”

Stiles noticeably flinches, I’m sorry for saying that, but it’s true. We didn’t want to rub our happiness in your face, especially when you mostly haven’t come to terms with his passing. In fact, it was our decision to only have the two of us married without any guests, since you weren’t coming. Because of Scott’s input, we cancelled the wedding ceremony,” he shifts his body to Stiles, “We didn’t want to celebrate until you are ready,”

Stiles looks at him with his heart at his throat, shocked that his presence mattered so much to others, “You didn’t have to,” he replies with difficulty.

“You’re right. We didn’t have to,” replies Jackson, “We wanted to,” Stiles lowers his head in guilt. Grieving is something complicated. You can never tell when the grieving really ends, because it’s only a point where you reach the zenith of your life that the grief will become small and almost irrelevant. But Stiles’ grief is strong and fresh, and if anyone supernatural can scent him, the first thing that supernatural being can discern is the feeling of sorrow and loss.

“I know we both have mostly bad blood moments,” says Jackson, “And I’m sorry for that, and I know Lydia is too, but you matter, Stiles. Everyone including Scott and Allison, Liam as well, all think that we should include you in our lives. You lost your dad. The least we could do is be a surrogate family for you,” Stiles’ eyes tear up at the words, his mask cracking considerably. He feels the first tear running down his cheek and the turbulence of breathing. Jackson hugs him, patting his back. Stiles hugs back, with his sobbing becoming more apparent and muffled.

Stiles pulls back and Jackson holds him by the shoulder, “Hey, I’m not saying that you should get over your grief because of a few simple words. We’ll wait for you, and we want everyone to be happy before the happy moments start rolling,” Stiles nods at his advice and wipes the remnants of his tears with his sleeve.

“Lydia, Scott, Isaac. They all miss you,” says Jackson, “And honestly, we thought we’ve lost you to grief,”

Stiles breathes in, the sound of his nose vibrating hearable, “What makes you think I haven’t lost myself to grief?”

“Because you thanked Lydia on his cooking and promotion,” says Jackson with a smile, “And we knew that we haven’t lost you yet,”


	6. Whereabouts

WHEREABOUTS

Stiles holds his mug while his eyes lock onto Jackson tending to the flowerbeds. Stiles never took him as the kind to care fro flowers, specially in view of the fact that Jackson played lacrosse, a particularly brutal sport. He would know this since he has spent most of his high school years sitting on the bench and watching his teammates doing all the work and basking most of the limelight. The warmth of the porcelain mug convects to his hand, and Stiles grips the mug tighter.

His high school years were days where it was less about going out with friends and more about spending time with his dad. Sure, he had outings with Scott, but nothing has gotten to road trips or camping. Stiles has always, by nature, a workaholic. Stiles breathes out of his mouth, blinking at the moments of his adolescent replaying in his mind like one of those disposable cameras. He remembers his graduation; the photo of him and his proud father. Scott and Melissa have been an extension of the family, sharing dinners with each other, and he was almost convinced that Scott and himself will be stepbrothers. That Melissa will be his stepmother and they will share a house.

He shakes his head and looks at the hot chocolate in his mug.

“Penny for your thoughts?” asks Lydia, who now sits beside him. Stiles’ shoulder raises considerably before lowering to normal. He gives a nervous smile at the strawberry blonde, and returns his gaze at Jackson, who’s engrossed with getting the flowers cared for. Lydia looks at him, before copying his gaze. “It was actually Jackson’s idea to get the flowerbeds,”

“Did he?” replies Stiles tersely.

“Yup,” replies Lydia whilst popping the ‘p’, “Says that the house should be far from the ordinary. No one we know lives here for a long period of time, and we decided to settle in a more . . . practical state, if you know what I mean. But we were both adamant of having something that separates our house from the others, so Jackson suggested flowerbeds, and I agreed. Never thought he will actually love being a self trained gardener,”

Stiles shifts his body, leaning torso and placing the mug on the coffee table, “He seems good at it,”

“Yeah. I’m as surprised as you are,” replies Lydia, “He says it reminds of all of us,”

“How so?” asks Stiles.

“He says that the flowers remind him of the different people. The rose is dedicated to me, of course,” says Lydia with an eye roll. Stiles chuckles at the jocular tone, “The bluebells, Scott; the tulips, Allison; sunflowers, Danny and the forget-me-nots, you,”

“Why forget-me-nots?”

“Coz you have been absent the most,” replies Lydia simply, “Scott, Allison, Danny, Liam and the others have all visited at least once or twice back in Beacon Hills except you. You have been gone for over 2 years, and we begin to think that you are never gonna come back. Not since . . .,” her voice quivers, “Not since,” she repeats; her voice now steady. Stiles nods slowly without giving eye contact, “Kinda ironic too. Forget-me-nots,”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, “So where are the others?” he asks, hoping to change the subject.

Lydia seems to rise to the bait, as she nonchalantly says, “Scott and Liam are in Paris, doing what couples would normally do,”. _Huh. Who knew that Scott would bat for the other team?_ “Melissa’s still here. She was appointed as head nurse just a couple months ago. And then there’s Isaac, who’s off somewhere in Washington for some outing; he’ll be back in about a week from now. Allison’s now in London, but she makes frequent visits when she’s free,”

Stiles nods at the update, “Seems like everyone’s gone their separate ways,”

“C’est la vie, Stiles,” replies Lydia, “People grow,”

“So, I take it you’ll be meeting Allison on the way?” asks Stiles.

“We haven’t really thought about it, to be honest. Maybe we will,” answers Lydia, “Honestly, the separation has almost gotten rid of our plans to even see each other. We’d just think it’s better to wing it when we meet each other,”

Stiles doesn’t say anything then. Jackson places his spade down on the soil, and takes a deep breath before looking to the neighborhood. He turns to the window, and waves at Stiles and Lydia. Lydia waves back silently, and Stiles smiles back, and relaxes on the sofa.

“You guys have packed, right?”


	7. Home Alone

HOME ALONE.

Friday could come any sooner and Stiles sits in the same sofa, where he can hear Lydia calling Jackson about their belongings being in their places as expected. Stiles sits patiently, assured by Lydia and Jackson that they have got it all covered. Stiles didn’t argue, so he adheres to it. Despite them being excited to go to the UK, their excitement has already gotten the best of the time management, as the couple frantically pack their clothes.

Stiles may have a hard time being alone while the two are gone. He can’t be bothered to just stay at home taking care of the place 24/7. Guess he’ll just have to find a place to work temporarily, at least until they return or something. He sighs at his predicament. If only his task would come with a side note.

It has been 2 hours since they begin packing, and Stiles wonders what time will their flight be, and how the two will be faring to the airport at this rate. The taxi will be coming in an hour, and if they aren’t ready by then, the taxi won’t just be charging for the trip. Still, they have money, so that’s the least of their worries.

“You guys ordered a taxi, right?” asks Stiles.

Jackson’s head pops to Stiles’ view and he replies, “Well, we were wondering if you could give us a ride to the airport. You know, familiarize with LA for the time being,” Stiles nods at the blond, allowing the man to continue their packing. Driving is no problem for Stiles, though he will admit that it has grown a tad rusty.

Three packed bags become four and finally six. It’s understandable, Stiles thought. They aren’t there for a small short trip. They will be gone for about a year, with calls and updates on the side. All Stiles needs to do is just take care of the plants on the flowerbeds and call the gardener if things go south. The house has to be dusted off and the car is at his disposal should he need to stock up on food or something. Stiles rarely drives, and the jeep that he had cared for so tenderly is left at home, where its battery is probably unused and needs more than just a push to get it going.

He’s not going to be touching his jeep anytime soon, so he’ll settle for Jackson’s Porsche.

Lydia brings in another bag and Jackson comes in with a leather jacket. Lydia dresses in a casual look with a white top and jeans, with a fur jacket covering her torso. She’s wearing boots that compliments her look, and Jackson dons the usual jeans and black shirt with leather jacket in his hands. Stiles stands and gives them a brief smile at the two. He gives his eyebrows a quirk when he sees the amount of luggage on the floor.

“So, is that it?” asks Stiles.

“I hope so,” replies Lydia before looking at Jackson for confirmation. He looks at the luggage, and nods at his wife.

“So, shall we?” asks Jackson. The rest nods, and Stiles helps out with the luggage, carrying them into the garage, where the black Porsche awaits to be loaded. “I’ll drive us to the airport and you can bring it back home, alright?” Stiles gives him his tacit approval, and Stiles enters the backseat, automatically leaning his body to the door and window. Lydia and Jackson buckle their seatbelt, and Jackson starts the ignition. The garage door opens, and he drives the vehicle out.

Stiles almost mistook that the airport was for his departure. It isn’t. It is for Lydia and Jackson’s departure to the UK. Stiles alights the vehicle, and unloads the items from the trunk. Jackson goes off to grab a trolley while Lydia helps Stiles out. They - with the help of Jackson with the trolley - place the items on the trolley and walk to the boarding area, with Stiles tailing them with the keys to both the home and Porsche in his hand.

They stop their walk to the boarding station, and Lydia and Jackson turn to Stiles. “This is us,” says Lydia. Stiles gives them a thin lipped neutral face, acknowledging their imminent departure. Lydia gives him a long hug, and Stiles give her a pat on the back. “We wish we could have stayed longer, but the sooner we do this, the faster we’ll come back,” Stiles doesn’t reply, “We’ll try to come back if possible,”

“Alright,” says Stiles with a nod. Jackson, slightly taller than him, too, gives him a hug. Stiles responds to the hug and they give the final parting words, with Lydia assuring that money has been deposited into Stiles’ account. He’s also appraised that some of the neighbors know of his presence, to which Stiles give a disapproved look. He didn’t like the idea, but maybe it is for the best, lest he wants a rolling pin on his head. He nods his thanks, and with one final wave from the couple they walk past the officer, with their documents verified. Stiles stands with his sneakers rooted to the floor and watches the two walk on.

When they finally fade out of his view, he walks back to the car.

Driving back to Beacon Hills is easy. Little turns taken, and only a long stretching road ahead of him. Driving Jackson’s ride should have invigorated him, but that did little to his excitement. He drives with care, and the smoothness of the vehicle is something he needs to get used to, especially when he’s driving the vehicle.

He finally makes to the driveway of Jackson and Lydia’s house, and parks the vehicle into the garage. He locks it, as well as closes the garage door. He walks into the house, and switches on the lights. It has gone dark and lighting the place up makes up for the dimness of the home.

Stiles sighs at the absence of its owner, and goes upstairs to his room for a shower.


	8. Small Reunions

SMALL REUNIONS.

A new day dawn upon Stiles, and it feels slightly strange without hearing any activity in the house. Over the past few days, he can hear the sizzling of the pan since his room is directly above the kitchen. He bestirs his exhaustion off and gets off the bed. He looks at the time, and it reads 0956, a normal time for an individual like to wake up to. He hasn’t realized how fast he adapts to things.

He walks to the window, and sees people walking past the neighborhood. A school bus passes by the house, and no doubt the said vehicle is heading to BCHS. He walks away from the window and walks to the bathroom, where he takes his warm shower. He hasn’t had a warm shower for some time, and the life in California has already replaced most of the things that Peru didn’t offer him. April. _Huh,_ Stiles ponders. At this time, the water in California will experience some drought, and complaints will be abounding. Luckily, the most that Stiles would go for a shower is at least once a day, since his daily activity comprises of going to class, and then come back and finish his thesis, leaving little to no interval for outings. Even the acquaintances he has made in Peru have grown accustomed to his lack of extroversion.

He dresses up in casual clothing and prepares himself a simple breakfast. He gets the pan ready and all the things that speak American to him. Peru’s style of breakfast has a distinct disparity from American, and Stiles so far only feels a tinge of homesickness anytime breakfast rolls in. Lunch and dinner don’t do that. Pizza’s international, and South American cuisine is almost incorporated diversely in the American culture.

He eats alone, and watches the outdoor with a pensive look. Looking at the fences, and then the backyard sort of brings him an unsurprised realization that Peru will never be the same as America. He stayed in the blocks back there, and he wonders where will he go when his PhD starts. Argentina? Ireland? Switzerland? _Who knows?_

He cleans his plates, and then walks upstairs. He did bring his laptop, but what will he do with it? He has seen almost everything that there is to know, and taking university courses has already expanded his global knowledge. He’s not the last person to know of the Presidential Campaign happening soon, or Kanye West’s nonsensical declaration of running for it. No offense, but having him will cause Leonardo DiCaprio’s talk and advocacy about environmental issue to be heavier since more than one paper will be required to let Kanye give his speech. Any mistake he does will need more than a piece of paper to give an apology. Just look at his Twitter.

Stiles reluctantly leaves the house, locking the door and then walking aimlessly to the heart of Beacon Hills. He’s not hoping to see any familiar faces, because nostalgia is overrated and the walk towards memory lane will take most of his energy to even relive them. There are two places he will proscribe him from going, and they are the Beacon Hills Police Department, and his home. Maybe he will go there, but something about that place will cause further instability to Stiles’ mind, and he’ll need more than a hospital and a straitjacket to keep him restrained.

Beacon Hills hasn’t changed as Stiles had imagined. He figures by now that the place would have been . . . urbanized. He continues his trail to nowhere, seeing the familiar stores and buildings that remain at the place. He passes the school, and sees the sign of the school standing strong. He walks inside, for just the fun of it. Ever since he graduated, he hasn’t gotten around the time to visit, and with his dad’s death, he has become distant about numerous things.

He passes the empty corridors. He doesn’t expect to see any students passing anyway, and their classes matter more than some guy who has studied here. There’s not a familiar face that walk these halls, and the locker that he used has been occupied by someone. The only familiar faces he knows will be the teachers, and a high chance Mr. Harris has left somewhere, since he has always been the ambitious teacher.

“Stilinski?” says a familiar voice. Stiles turns around and see Coach Finstock standing a few meters away from Stiles. He quickens his pace to his ex-student, and looks almost shocked at the face of his, “Dear God, it is you,”

“Hey, coach,” says Stiles casually.

“Looking to work here in the school?” asks Coach nonchalantly. Stiles’ eyes narrow in confusion at the question; unsure on why such topic is raised. Most students will give visits, not job applications. Coach seems to understand the body language, and recovers, “Oh, guess not,”

“The school’s out of workers?” he asks.

“Sadly. Your chemistry teacher has moved off to Washington. Got a promotion as headmaster,” Stiles seems unsurprised at his deduction, “Shame too. May be an asshole, but still one of our best,”

Stiles hums at the comment, giving him a half-hearted agreement.

“So, how’s life treating you?” asks Coach.

Stiles merely shrugs, “Just got my Master’s and taking a break for now,” he doesn’t want to reveal too much to the coach.

“That quick already. Man, some things don’t change,” says Coach with a laugh. Stiles gives him a weak smile at the man. He doesn’t know the half of it, thought Stiles to himself, “So you’ll be on the road, soon?”

“Not anytime soon,” replies Stiles.

“Then you should take a job here. Heard the principal’s gone desperate for some manpower,” whispers the coach. Stiles nods. “So, I take it you’re at your old home?” Stiles stiffs at the mention of his old home, but that is to be expected anyway, since most would take his father’s death as something too sentimental to think about.

“No,” answers Stiles, “I’m taking care of Lydia and Jackson’s house,”

“The power couple,” comments Coach Finstock, “Still going strong. Can’t they afford a maid?”

“You know Lydia, sir. Testy,”

“Point taken,” concedes the coach, “But seriously, what about the others? McCall, Lahey. Where are they?”

“Scott’s out in the world. Isaac’s in Washington. He’ll be back next week,” the coach nods with a hum but doesn’t press about his other students. Stiles may be out of high school, but keeping up with his friends have been at the bottom of his to-do-list.

“You should really come in and work as a temporary teacher, Stilinski. We’re only have one so far, and he’s teaching English, but we need someone who’s able to Math, or Chemistry. We’ve been looking for some people, but most have left Beacon Hills. Says the school’s a nightmare and staying here for another year just for teaching is worse,”

Boy, if only he knew that side of the story. “I’ll keep that in mind,”


	9. Stripes To Pay

STRIPES TO PAY.

Days pass since his small reunion and Stiles have not made the move to leave the house. He’s been a hermit and the only things that Stiles have so far done is tending to the flowerbeds as promised to Jackson, and keeping the place clean. He feels more of a butler than a friend for pay. Actually, there isn’t any difference between the two.

He could always apply for a part time job, but having to fill out his requirements will be strenuous, and the venture to his old home to have his old documents will take time. Maybe a simple résumé will suffice, but printing his achievements. There’s probably too many for someone like him. He writes the resume quickly, and then prints it. He ignores the certificates, and just settles for the basic important ones. Surely, someone will take a Master’s graduate.

The only problem is . . . where will he work?

He could always work at the school, as Finstock suggested to him. Pays well, too. All he has to do is work from 8 to 1 in the afternoon, and four-thirty if he has any extra class. The distance doesn’t seem too far, and he doesn’t have to be the one bringing all the books and lugging them in a locker. Moreover, he can stay at his table for all he cares. He doesn’t need the money, either. The amount given by both Lydia and Jackson speaks more than enough.

A little more money won’t hurt, though.

He drives to the school, and watches the students flood out of the building like a deluge. He waits in the car patiently, and can hear and see the muffled awestruck voices and looks at when they pass his car. Surely, American parents these days’ cosset and pamper their children till no end, or are the phones too much?

He leaves the vehicle amid the flood of students, and locks it. He ignores the looks given by the students. He enters the building to see some students lingering the corridors, and watches as they unload their contents from the lockers with heavy heart. Schoolwork is the last thing that he despises of school. In fact, he thrives on it, and the joy rushing through his body when he does his work is merely a form of catharsis. He needed something to vent his boredom to.

He walks into the general office, where he meets the clerk and informs him of his purpose here. The clerk warms up to him, with her courteousness being played like it is second nature to her. She asks him to take a seat, and he did so obediently. He didn’t have to worry the lack of required documents, since the school - particularly the principal - is desperate for some workers. Teachers leave the office, with some familiar faces smiling at him, but no catching up was done as duty calls. Stiles doesn’t seem to feel the need to catch up either. It will just be enervating for him.

He enters the principal office under the direction of the clerk, with his résumé ready for perusal. The principal reads it with the added apology of not bringing an exhaustive work application. Without giving any deliberation, he immediately hires Stiles, citing his academic achievements as a primary source that the school will be able to manage for at least a year. He shakes his hand in agreement and partnership, and Stiles leaves the office, with his duty beginning tomorrow. As a part time teacher, dress code isn’t a priority, but recommended to follow the required protocols. The leniency is apparent, though, as Coach Finstock has been wearing his usual red hoodie and sweatpants almost daily.

He leaves the school, and drives the Porsche out, ignoring the onlookers who find the vehicle a beauty that shouldn’t be squandered carelessly.


	10. Conditions

Purchasing formal clothes won’t be a problem, since he now has money. Not that he doesn’t have before, just that with Jackson’s money, it has become sort of an incentive.

CONDITIONS.

Despite being just a county and a suburb of California, it still has the basic amenities of what a metropolis usually consists of. With a school being present, it makes sense that Beacon Hills will need a store that specializes in suits and formal clothing.

Stiles returns home, with clothes purchased for himself. He buys himself a couple pairs, with his intention to be casual in the middle of all the formality. As reluctant as he feels like teaching, there are some things that he has the right to have as conditions; and dress codes is one of them.

He places the hamper full of clothes on the sofa, and relaxes as he sits. He watches as the grasses outside grow darker, with the sun setting slowly as seconds progresses. He stands up with effort, and switches on the outdoor lights, illuminating the outside. He prepares himself a simple dinner and showers, leaving his food unattended for a few moments.

He showers mechanically, with his body lathered in soap and he stands emotionlessly in the tub. He places his hands on the wall, leaning to it, and closes his eyes as lets the water cascades over his body. How much has already passed over the course of a few days. The postponing of his PhD., returning to Beacon Hills, then having a small job in his old school, with little to no familiar face. Almost like it’s been shoved in his face.

Stiles gives a shuddering sigh.

He dries himself to and wear his usual clothes. Before he usually likes being alone; says he’s used to being at home with his dad constantly being out for his work. Now, he kind of - if not, actually - resents being alone, with no one to look after to, and no one to even see in the morning before going to school or going to bed, at least. His dad’s shifts have always been erratic, with his schedule spanning from the morning to either the evening or in the dead of the night. He would always hear the rapping of the door that informs him that he will leave for work, making Stiles eating breakfast by his lonesome. When Scott asked him whether he has even gotten sick of his absence, he would usually reply “No,”.

But now, he kind of thinks that the answer is different right now if the question is repeated. Maybe it’s just him knowing that his dad is well, or maybe it’s just him devaluing the time of him ever being with his dad. He sighs emotionlessly as he walks down the stairs.

He prepares his dinner without much effort, and goes to the living room where a sofa and television waits. He takes his place and then switches the television on, with his attention being aimless when he just settles for a channel with nothing interest. He takes a bite of his dinner, a simple sandwich comprising of only lettuce, tomatoes, ham and mustard. He sighs as he eats, as if the mood to eat his meal isn’t strong to begin with.

He wonders how his first day as a teacher will be. Will they look at him with no seriousness attached? Will he care? Will they fear him - which will be most unlikely - for the test or his authority? Never mind the tests, he understands what he is supposed to teach but with his spastic autonomy, will he go overboard with the manner of questions asked?

He sighs and presses a button of his remote.  



	11. First Day

FIRST DAY.

The school bell rings robotically and the students rush in like floodwater into the school building. Lockers slam shut without care as they made their way reluctantly to their first period of the day. Teachers make their appearances, ushering the students to their classes with a no nonsense attitude. Well, if you count Coach Finstock, that is. He will probably give the students in the lacrosse team an extra 3 laps around the field without stuttering.

The revved engine dies down as the body that the engine resides parks in the car park of the school. He wears his first day slightly formal, with sneakers tarnishing - not really - the whole formality appearance. He breathes in, and watches as the students park their vehicles and make their way to the building. AS usual, when one has a luxurious car, many will look and admire or ogle such beauty. He ignores them, as usual, the attention not being his main agenda as a teacher on his first day.

He walks out of the vehicle, and locks the car. He can see the students staring at him with some form of admiration using his peripheral vision and he marches on, not really caring whether or not they want to know him as a person, or just by the vehicle or any form of materialism anyway.

“Yo,” exclaims a student, “Sweet ride! Is it yours?” he continues as he nears Stiles. Stiles doesn’t do much as a smile, and walks off, leaving the student clad in varsity alone. The student doesn’t seem to take silence too well as he walks towards him again and asks, “Hey, kid! I’m talking to you!”

 _A jock. Why am I not surprised?_ He turns around and looks at the blond student. He stands taller than him, maybe a few inches taller. His expression seems rather annoyed, most likely due to ignorance, as if no one gives him a shit at all. He sighs at the student, and looks at him with calm resolution, “I’ll see you in class,” he says with a folded smile and a clasp on his shoulder, like he was talking to a pal. _That kid will never be a pal to me._

He walks in the office, giving the clerk the required details lest he wants some people saying that he’s too young to be some teacher, or some figure that’s playing a hoax to the board. The clerk simply smiles at him and escorts him to his office, where the other teachers reside. He gives them a silent wave, not really in the mood for some free road trip to memory lane about his high school life nor his recent achievements in the course of almost a decade. He sees his timetable, and reads that he will be teaching 10th grade Chemistry along with 10th and 11th grade Math. He lays the printed information on the table, and stares at the book that are placed neatly for his use.

He picks the books up and gives a quick skim, unsurprised that over 10 years, there’ll be at least _some_ changes added into the syllabus. Nothing too serious, though, as his years in university has prepared for him the course. Scratch that, not really. It’s actually his curiosity to finding things that give the benefit for his season. He can still remember his dad telling him of what Coach Finstock told him about an essay of circumcision, an information regrettably, no one but him paid it to. At least he won’t be teaching Physical Education. That’s Coach Finstock’s job, and best suited for him, no pun intended.

He stares at the vacant table next to him, seeing that a jacket has been placed on the chair. His period doesn’t start until the next bell rings and he wonders what will he be facing. He can feel his hands running slightly cold due to the growing anticipation and he finally sits down, hoping that the said action will abate his growing nervousness. He’s never taught before, and that’s the least of his problem. The real problem is whether or not he will be able to keep his tongue in check, since his inclination to sass and give sarcasm like bullets in a magazine is almost infinite.

The staff room is emptied, much to Stiles’ relief. Only some reside there, but none of them speak any familiarity to him. At least no one will bother him. He sits and takes one of the book and reads it, flipping a page per second as if he has photographically memorized the whole book. Either that, or it’s just his memory bank being fresh as always.

The bell rings.

He walks towards his class and sees the students going out to retrieve their belongings and necessities for their classes. Some make a brisk walk to the labs and the students give him stares and some give smiles at Stiles, to which he impassively walks past them. He doesn’t want to act arrogant, but he’s been far from being the same as he is when he was 18. Things have changed, and when variables change, so do the results.

And Stiles today is a product of that change.

He walks into the lab with nothing but a book in his hand, and sees the students clad in casual clothing. They turn silent when he walks in, and creepily so, because silence from just his appearance and presence isn’t something he wants to start by. He places the book down on the marble table, and scans the laboratory. Nothing has changed much in interior terms. The students, yes, and he’s never expected to be standing in the front where the teacher usually resides for more than a minute. He blinks a few times before opening his book, flipping the pages to begin the lesson.

He takes a chalk on the board, before writing his name as “Mr. Stilinski”, something he doesn’t usually go by. He grimaces at the title, before erasing the Mr. and changing it “Stiles”. He nods at it in approval and turns to his students.

“Right, I’m your temporary teacher for the time being, and as you can see, I don’t really like Mr. being called in the room, so I stick with Stiles,” he can hear some students chuckling at his awkwardness, and he almost felt relieved of the relaxed nature, “Now, have you guys started on any of the chapters before I got here?”

None raises their hands. He’s unsurprised, knowing that some of these students have yet to discover themselves. “Right. Okay. Well, we’ll just start from chapter 2, since the first is always about your career choices, which we’ll save that for your English teacher with _and_ Career Day,”

The chuckles return. _Okay, you’ve got this._ He breathes in and exhales relaxingly.

“Now, Chapter 2. Atoms,”


	12. Colleague

The bell rings, and the students pack their bags before walking out of the class. They express their thanks to Stiles, with some giving earnest smiles and some stopping for a brief moment to tell them that his lesson was comprehensive. He gives them a weak smile, before hearing the door click shut. He sits down on his stool, and closes the book, ending his day of Chemistry for today.

He stands up and picks the book up and goes out of the classroom, and is met with silence as he sees the last few doors closing. He continues walking and returns to the staff room without wasting time. He passes the classes and goes in the office, where he then goes into the door where all teachers sit.

He walks past the busy teachers, whom he can see the red pens and hear the scratches of the pen against the papers. Grading is going to be a new story when he is prompted to come up with tests for their term. He groans mentally at the idea of having to do that, but he knows that giving easy question doesn’t get them far, nor does giving them irrelevant syllabus in their papers.

He sits down and places the Chemistry book down, turning his attention to the Mathematics book. He sees the cover, and reads the first few pages, and then fully reading for preparation. His lesson starts at the next bell, and taking the first chapter is easy as pie, again pun intended, before he turns to the next chapter without missing a beat.

“Someone’ active today,” says a voice. His resolution wavers at the voice and he turns to his right to see a man in black sipping a cup of coffee. He seems young, maybe a little older and giving him a quirked eyebrow at him. Stiles gives him a folded smile before refocusing, “You always this friendly?”

Stiles doesn’t answer him, and this draws a chuckle from the man himself. He walks away from his table, and Stiles give a huff of relief upon his exit. Having a colleague is fine, he guesses, but in his entire life, particularly his education in university, he has never once made any colleagues nor friends. The only friends he has made are the ones from school, and who knows where they have ended up.

A cup of coffee is placed and nudged by a taut finger towards him, bringing Stiles to a slightly startled pause. He glances up and sees the same man smiling at him. He murmurs a soft “Thanks,” but doesn’t touch the proffered cup. The man doesn’t seem to move and he gives a chuckle at the cynicism.

“I promise it’s not poisoned. It’s meant to be black,” states the man. Stiles simply gives a nod at him, but the man still stays rooted at his position, “I’m Derek, by the way. Derek Hale. I teach English here,” he says with hand now in front of Stiles.

Stiles looks at the hand before shaking it. He then looks at Derek and observes his features. Dark hair, hazel eyes and a growing scruff that stretches from his side burn to his chin. His clothes seem to fit right for him, and a little tighter, he may just be able to see the firm muscles through the clothed layer. The hand is slightly course, but soft at the same time. A juxtaposition he has never encountered in his life, “Stiles. Chemistry and Math,”

“Finally, someone who will take the mantle,” comments Derek. Stiles stays quiet then, before taking a sip of the coffee. It’s bitter, like all plain coffee, but continues to take small sips of the warm liquid, “Ex-student?” Stiles lowers the cup and nods his reply, “Me too. Class of 2007,”

“2012,” he tersely replies.

“So you’re 26 now?” asks Derek.

“Well, a math teacher can count quicker than that,” he blindly replies. There comes a pause between them and Stiles realizes the whiplash of his statement. He scoffs at himself before closing his eyes, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said that,”

“I know you didn’t,” replies Derek nonchalantly, “I’m only 30, trying to fit in with the young ones,”

“If I keep drinking this, I think the coffee will be the one that’s young,” Derek laughs at Stiles’ comeback, silently applauding himself for his success in cracking Stiles. Stiles gives a small smile at the response, and takes another sip of his coffee.

“I take it you just started today?” asks Derek. Stiles nods his assent and Derek continues, “I started this year too, like a couple months ago, just hoping to give back to the school,”

“Props to you,” replies Stiles. The bell rings before Derek can give his next reply, and Stiles downs the rest of his coffee before picking his book up. Don’t get him wrong, making small talk with someone next to you is fine, but small talk isn’t something that Stiles is to expand on.

“I’ll see you soon?” asks Derek kind heartedly. Stiles turns and gives him an imperceptible nod to him. He feels mixed on that question but gives the tall man the benefit of the doubt before exiting the staff room.


	13. How Nice

He walks into the classroom and watches the students taking their respective seats. The students give a nod to each other as a form of greeting, and they place their books on the table. Stiles writes his name once more on the blackboard, and scans the room to see that the student in varsity is in his class. He gives a wide eye shameful look at Stiles, before lowering his body into the seat. Stiles smiles at his misery before beginning his lesson.

The class didn’t take too long for the students to get sets and index numbers in their mind. Stiles so far has managed to make it understandable to the students and with the questions written on the board being solved by the majority, if not, all the students, Stiles couldn’t help but feel like his progress is almost going smooth.

Too smoothly.

The bell rings and the students exit the room automatically. Stiles watches them leave and sees the student in varsity coming to him with a miserable look at him. He waits for the rest of the students to leave and when the last man leaves do the student go up to Stiles.

“Hey, Mr. Stilinski. I-,”

“It’s Stiles, and it’s okay. I get it. I don’t really fit the teacher look,” he says off-handedly. The student nods at him solemnly, the trace of guilt evidenced by his facial expression. Stiles folds his lip at the look and walks to him, “What’s your name?”

“Matthew,” he replies.

“Lacrosse?” he asks. Matthew nods at him, “Word of advice, Coach Finstock will give you 10 laps if you’re late right about now,” Matthew looks at him with bewilderment and Stiles smiles smugly at him. The student chuckles nervously at him before walking away, but not without giving him his thanks. Stiles smiles softly at his exit, before waiting for the next wave of students to come in.

Stiles’ stomach rumbles and he grimaces at the feeling of it. He chastises himself for not bringing a proper lunch and going to the cafeteria isn’t something he’s looking forward to, knowing that cafeteria food will be every child’s worse nightmare, and from the looks of it, it could be a prisoner’s one too, if he ever gets a bite of the mystery meat that Stiles shivers at the thought of. He holds his stomach gently, hoping that he will be able to alleviate the hunger for just a few more hours.

An apple is placed on the table, and Stiles look up to see Derek giving him a friendly smile at him. Stiles stares at the apple, wondering whether should he take such snack so easily. Derek chuckles at him, before telling him with his half-eaten apple in front of him, “Would you rather have mine?”

Stiles shakes his head in disagreement before taking the apple on the table. He takes a bite of it and Derek sits next to him, letting their time be filled with nothing but eating silently. Derek seems to be smiling giddily at their little ‘friendship’ that they have fostered, and Stiles doesn’t know whether to feel creped out or just disgusted.

“So, why Beacon Hills? I haven’t seen you around in the neck of the woods,” asks Derek. Stiles gives him a side-eye, not really feeling the pleasure of divulging his past to some stranger.

“Because reasons,” says Stiles with a shrug, “And I’m only here for a few months before I take my PhD. in Harvard,”

“A college man. I like,” replies Derek. Stiles gives him a lipped smile at the man, not really understanding such jovial disposition. He wonders what is in the man’s agenda, and takes another bite of his apple to deaden the rumble in his stomach and his mind.


	14. Agenda

Don’t know why they make it harder, they say. Choose between a vacuum and a broom, which will be easier? Obviously, the vacuum.

Sadly, Stiles has chosen the broom, and call him a glutton for burden or punishment, but the fact that he could live a life free of burden, he chooses it with having school work. Assigning homework is easy, but to mark them, that’s just brutal. Luckily, he’s able to work fast in giving A’s to F’s (mostly A’s), because Stiles can’t bear to waste another second of stalling because putting up reports and then his free time to himself nearly makes him feel like those people who don’t enjoy their work.

And maybe it is happening right now.

He walks back to his room slowly, like his energy has been enervated and drained by the pure concentration of ticking his students work nearly makes him feel like he has climbed over some mountain. Not to mention the meetings teachers have these days.

He tries to come up with a mental timetable and he knows that maybe if he can just stick to it without a problem, and adapt to it, maybe his new job will be a lot less harrowing. Hopefully, he doesn’t have to face through so much agony. Doing something for people is a pain in the ass, that’s for sure.

He lays on his bed, and exhales audibly at the contact of his back against the soft cushion of his bed. Lydia and Jackson have not given him a call, and probably don’t need to, since the idea of having them calling will be brutal and he doesn’t think he can spare another energy for a long chat.

Stiles wonder what do teachers feel when they are subjected to teach something that they have no interest in. Do they resent it by their facial expressions? Does their body language speak for itself? Stiles won’t be able to feel that since his subjects that he’s teaching aren’t ones to hate, but what about the generality of it. Does he hate teaching school? Sure, the students so far have not expressed their contempt . . . yet, but maybe one will, he won’t know for sure.

He walks in the now cleared area of the school, coming in a bit late. It’s all good, since his classes mostly start at the second period, which he guesses most of the government finally understand the horror of going through Math first before anything. One less thing to break their spirits.

He walks in the staff room, and sees Derek sitting with a book in his hand; his legs laid on the table casually. He sways his chair left and right, his attention not really 100% when he’s flipping the next page. He tries to act like Derek’s not there, and he sits down, not sharing any eye contact towards the man.

He hears the book close shut, and Stiles’ breathing hitches but doesn’t how it. Instead, he grabs his book and pre-reads the content. It’s actually unnecessary, since Stiles knows the methods and applications of the topic like it’s at the back of his head, but he doesn’t push his luck, because he wants two things: to make sure he knows what he’s teaching, one; and two: not having any contact with his colleagues for the day, particularly Derek, who’s lively personality is a bit unnerving and something he hasn’t gotten to see for such a long time.

“Morning,” says Derek. Stiles gives a brief glance not to Derek, but just the table and then nods perfunctorily at it. He returns his gaze to the book until Derek says, “Tables talk, huh? Amazing,” Stiles ignores the sarcasm, not really in the mood for some jocular analogy or anecdote from his tall colleague. From his peripheral vision, he can see the man walking away, along with the chair rolling by a few inches. He breathes in slowly, glad that the man has decided to take his leave.

A cup of coffee is placed on the table, and Derek smiles at him when Stiles looks up. He nods his thanks, although his face doesn’t resonate his intention. “Come on, don’t be like that,” says Derek, “Smile a little,”

He huffs his frustration, and then takes the cup of coffee with a sip, hoping that Derek will at least leave him alone - which is most unlikely, since he practically sits next to him, Derek doesn’t seem fazed by the constant sour mood, and moves back to his seat, continuing to read his literature content. Stiles rolls his eyes, his mind exclaiming _finally!_ upon the newfound silence.

The bell rings audibly for everyone to hear and Stiles immediately gets up, not caring who leaves first or last in the room. He hears Derek calling out to him, and Stiles turns around under protest. He sees the man smiling at him, and says, “You free today after school?”

Stiles leaves without giving him an answer.


	15. Wreckage & Salvage

So far, no problems have come up to Stiles’ life, and he goes on with his teaching, and is surprised - still is - of the fact that many of his students are listening attentively to his lessons. He also likes the break in between too, with the students casually talking with him like he’s their new best friend. Stiles hasn’t crossed his line or parameters, so maybe _that_ particular factor is the reason why many students like him so much.

The last bell rings with students packing their belongings and jotting their notes down on the board for their notes and homework. Stiles closes his book, and watches as they slowly leave the class. He’s not allowed to leave until all students do, fearing that their disappearances or any harmful incidents will be his responsibility to shoulder.

As the last student leaves, and bids his goodbye to him, Stiles closes the door, and walks to the staff room, where he drops his book and punches his card, signaling his end of shift. He signs off, and walks to the car, where he sees something he never expects to see happening.

Jackson’s car window - the front of it- being crashed. When looked closer, the vehicle is scratched and not just those scratches where one will call it an accident. The lines are jagged and deliberate, like someone did it as a form of spite. As Stiles walk closer to the vehicle, he sees the tires punctured without mercy. He scans the parking lot and his attempt goes nugatory when he sees the place devoid of students and vehicles. He sighs pitifully at himself, and combs his hair to tame his anger. There are only three cars remaining, and tracking the owners will be pointless, since they could be anywhere. If it were more, maybe asking for help will be a lot easier.

“Stiles?” he turns to the voice and sees Derek standing a few meters away. Derek wears a worried expression on his face, and Stiles, although he seems relieved of the fact that he needn’t go far to ask for help, Derek as a form of help isn’t the first on his list of choices. The man clad in baby blue dress shirt walks to him, and huffs disapprovingly at the state of Stiles’ car. “Who did this?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he replies. He sighs, “I’ll just go back in and call the tow truck to get this moved for repair,”

“Use my phone,” offers Derek. He fishes out a phone, and passes it to Stiles.

“It’s good,” declines Stiles quickly, “I have mine,” he gets his phone out and calls the local tow operator. Derek doesn’t seem hampered by his effort, and allows Stiles to use his own accouterment. He consciously stands a few meters away from Derek, his mind still stubborn about keeping an arm’s length away from people he doesn’t know. He makes his complaint to the clerk answering his call, and hangs up when he hears their agreement to come and tow the Porsche in half an hour. He turns around to see Derek still standing inches away from the car and waiting for him. He walks towards him, and his hopeful expression lights up upon seeing Stiles nearing towards him.

“They’ll be here in half an hour, so . . .,” says Stiles, unsure on how to finish his sentence. He doesn’t want to chase Derek away by being to straightforward, nor does he want the implication to be too vague for him insofar as to dismiss it.

“I can give you a ride,” offers Derek.

“It’s okay, I’ll just wait here for the tow truck to come here, and then I’ll walk home,” he counters. He _really_ doesn’t want to have someone taking care of him, and it’s not like a mountain lion is going to devour him in the evening.

“Walk home?” asks Derek disbelievingly, “When it’s almost sunset? You’re joking,”

“I can take care of myself,” says Stiles determinedly. Derek doesn’t seem convinced as his expression continues to resonate his incapability to see eye to eye to the said assessment, “Seriously, Derek. You should be home,”

Derek huffs, and walks away from Stiles. Stiles almost give a loud congratulation to himself for able to convince someone to leave him alone, but refrains himself from doing so. He sees Derek going into his car, a black Camaro, and closing the door. He’s unsurprised of the vehicle used, since the Porsche that Jackson has lent died his reaction towards any luxurious cars. He sees the black vehicle passing him and his car, and then reverse before parking it beside the wrecked Porsche.

Stiles’ shoulder hangs low as he rolls his eyes at the man’s stubbornness.


	16. The Offer is Yours

The tow truck comes in 34 minutes after the call.

It was easy, just clip the tow line to the hood of the car and then bring it to the nearest mechanic shop. The driver gives Stiles a card to the nearest mechanic, informing him that the garage will open the next day. All he needs to do is just give him the orders and payment. The driver warns him that repair will take a while, to which Stiles doesn’t mind, since damage like that doesn’t find itself fix right off the bat. Stiles acknowledges the information and gives his thanks to the man. He watches the vehicle being moved away and he can hear the soft crackling of the glass being re-crushed on the asphalt and bitumen road.

He pockets the card and starts walking but not before hearing a throat being cleared. He closes his eyes as a form of grimace, completely forgotten that he’s being accompanied by someone.

Derek Hale.

“Forgetting somebody?” asks Derek. Stiles turns around and gives a reluctant smile at him to which Derek doesn’t seem moved at all.

Stiles huffs at the 30-year-old and rolls his eyes at the stubborn nature of his, “Thank you?” he says, even though that’s not what he wants to hear.

“Come on,” says Derek as he moves towards his car, “I’ll take you home,”

“I’ll just walk, Derek. I can manage myself,” he says.

“Then compromise for today,” replies Derek, “Come on, free rides. I’ll even let you decide whether to wear the seatbelt,” Stiles rolls his eyes at the remark, and walks away from the vehicle, resolute about his decision to walk home. The distance isn’t that far, and he could make it there in 15 minutes’ tops. As he walks away from the school parking lot, he can hear a vehicle getting closer to him, and he doesn’t have to turn around to guess nor find out the owner of the car.

He tries to ignore the vehicle that’s tailing him but his attempts go in vain when he hears the smooth and almost inaudible lowering of the car window, “Hey, I told you to get in here,”

“No,” he finally replies. _What is the deal with this guy?_

“No? Come on, Stiles. It’s dark, and Beacon Hills isn’t safe in the dark like this. You can’t even see where you’re going,” He won’t deny it, too. The road back to home doesn’t have any lamp posts, not unless you’re taking the other way, which is a slightly longer road. Stiles huffs his acquiescence and opens the car door, entering it without buckling his seatbelt. Derek grins at his success and continues to drive out of the school area.

“Sorry about your car, by the way,” offers Derek. Stiles merely shrugs at the apology, “You think it’s gonna cost a lot?”

“I wouldn’t worry about money,” says Stiles while his eyes are still transfixed to the window, never minding the fact that he can barely see the outside.

Derek hums in response, and continues taking a left before reaching the county, where most of the shopping and activities take place. The nightlife is fairly strong, as he can see the people entering and exiting the store. He wonders what kind of life he will be living in if his father’s still alive. Will he just stick to a college degree? Will he spend the remains of his life around here or continue to finish his Master’s, only this time, he makes a lot of effort into meeting his father whenever he’s free. He scrunches his eyebrows when he thinks of the possibilities, anything that makes him feel like the fatalism will be prolonged.

But he’s not prolonging the inevitability of his father’s death, instead he’s prolonging his inevitability of himself moving on.

The car stops by a diner, one that most people will go to whenever they need to catch their breaths. Stiles peers his eyes upwards to the sign, and hears the unbuckling of the seatbelt from Derek, his intention purposeful. “Come on. I’m starving, and don’t lie when you say you aren’t. Coz that apple alone isn’t going to get the doctor away,”

He opens his door with slightly heavy eyes and alights the vehicle. He watches Derek entering the diner with the door bell ringing, and as much as Stiles wants to walk away to his home, he cannot deny that his hunger is extremely apparent and becoming surlier at its owner’s obstinate behavior. He untucks his shirt and then walks in the diner and take a seat opposite of Derek. Derek is reading his menu with some form of elation in his eyes, and Stiles stares at it briefly before taking his own copy of his menu, reading the selections offered.

“I’m gonna go for the fish and chips,” says Derek, closing the menu with a smile. Stiles looks at him for a moment then returns to his menu. He scans the menu with scrutiny and closes the book once he has silently made his decision. He watches outside the window and sees a father and a son holding hands. The son is barely 5 years old, and the way he looks at his father with admiration sends unsettling memories to Stiles’ mind.

“I have to go,” says Stiles, breaking his contact away from the sight. Derek alarms at the declaration and grips his wrist when the chance came.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” asks Derek, not really following the sudden decision to leave. Stiles tries to keep going but Derek’s grip stays strong. He tries to pull him back and succeeds but not without assuring him, “Hey, I’m here. Just stay, alright? You’re alright, okay?”

Stiles hasn't realized that his breathing has gone erratic, and he can feel his body calming down. No one seems to see the little skirmish of Stiles, and he calms down faster when he hears his conscience speaking to him. “Right,” says Stiles, “Sorry, sorry. Just had an episode,” He sits down and attempts to not look outside, for fear that another glimpse of a father and son together will only bring back another panic attack.

“No worries,” says Derek with a slight hint of confusion. Stiles closes his eyes, trying to drown the rest of his panic inside. “You always have these moments?”

“I thought I did,” says Stiles. He hasn’t had a panic attack in years, and maybe because of the indoors, he hasn’t seen much but maybe it was because of the location and the relationship that causes him to hyperventilate, “Right. Sorry. I’m okay now,”

Derek merely nods, hoping for Stiles’ sake, that he is what he says to be.


	17. Receipt

The waiter comes in with Derek’s order, and Derek gives his thanks to the waiter. She smiles flirtingly at Derek and Stiles simply disregards the eye contact, not really caring her failing attempts at the 30-year-old man. Derek doesn’t seem too interested at the waiter, as he picks up his fork and knives and begins tucking in. The waiter purses her lips, before walking away from the pair.

“You’re not eating, Stiles?” asks Derek. Stiles shoulders rise by a fraction, before giving his assurance that he has ordered his meal. Derek nods before returning to his meal, understandably impatient to satiate his hunger.

Stiles’ meal comes in; a plate of homemade burger with curly fries on the side. Stiles gives a smiles of appreciation to the waiter, and the waiter walks away with a smile. He lifts the sesame bun and squeezes a fair amount of ketchup on the patty. He closes back the patty with the bun and starts eating the burger with nothing but his hands. He chews slowly and glances out the window, his mind already calmed almost permanently at the sight. He was in a moment of weakness, and he promises his mind and body that it won’t happen again.

The meal goes on quietly with Derek finishing his meal faster than Stiles. He doesn’t seem bothered by Stiles’ pace, knowing that his episode must have given him some setbacks to recover from. Stiles doesn’t share eye contact with Derek, though as his eyes is almost latched to the outside that he probably doesn’t notice that his sitting posture is almost inappropriate. His back hunches slowly, and if he continues to tilt his neck at that angle, he mind as well take sign himself off for tomorrow for recovery.

So, Derek wipes his mouth with a napkin and does the most sensible thing he could do: clear his throat audibly.

Stiles perks at the sound and notices Derek looking at him with an affectionate smile, before looking down at his burger which is only half-eaten. He murmurs his apology and finishes his food, guilty for stalling most of Derek’s time. Derek drinks his milkshake with patience, and calls the waiter once Stiles finishes his meal.

Stiles sees the waiter coming in and he prepares his wallet. He takes out a ten and is about to hand it to the waiter, but is stopped by Derek, who passes him a twenty. “For all of these,” he says. Stiles lowers his hand, not really into the idea of having someone paying his meal without his consent.

“I got that,” says Stiles sourly.

“I know, but I prefer if I paid it for the both us,” says Derek with a simper. Stiles keeps his money and looks back at the window without feeling at least offended nor disturbed by the smugness that Derek’s evincing.

The waiter comes back with his change and they both walk out of the diner. Stiles walks out last and sees Derek going in the car. Derek doesn’t go in, though, and Derek stops the moment he sees Stiles not going in with him. “What’s wrong?” asks Derek.

Stiles balks for a few seconds before he musters up the courage to say, “I’ll just walk home. It’s not far from here,”

“Come on,” returns Derek, walking towards him, “I can take you home, the least I can do,”

“And the most you can do is?” rejoinders Stiles. Derek doesn’t answer, a little stunned by the retort, “At least something for the digestion to keep going,” He prays internally that Derek will let go of him, and finally gets his wish when he sees Derek giving his tacit approval.

The tall man finally sighs, “Alright,” he says, “But you keep the receipt. So, the next time you’ll pay for the meal,” Stiles just nods, hoping that his agreement is enough to humor him before he leaves the brown eyed alone. Derek doesn’t seem all on board about the idea of letting Stiles walking home alone, let alone where in a position where he’s at risk of being kidnapped due to the strong implication of his car. He walks back to his car before waving his hand to him and entering in the vehicle. Stiles merely waves back, with the receipt in hand.

The vehicle moves away and Stiles gives a huff of relief. For someone with good intentions, he can sure be annoying, and irony is strong too. He was once like that, and Stiles shakes his head at his mental canting.

He walks home without turning back to see the vehicle moving and fiddles with the receipt in hand. He passes by the people walking on the lighted streets. The dinner wasn’t bad, and so far, being the only one wearing his clothes untucked and slightly unkempt brings a sense of nostalgic rebelliousness to his life. He finally reaches the porch of Lydia and Jackson’s home and looks at the receipt before deciding to throw it away. $13.45 it says and when he turns the piece of paper around, he finds something unexpected.

A phone number written with a biro.


	18. Insurance

“The car is what?” asks Jackson disbelievingly. The weekend has come and usually, calls will come once in a blue moon, but upon discovering his vehicle has been wrecked to no end, Stiles decides that it’d be best if he has knowledge about the state of his prized possession.

“The car got wrecked, Jackson. I’m sorry,” says Stiles. He really doesn’t want to go over the whole story about how the car got wrecked so he kept the information in a summary.

He hears the blond sigh into the receiver, and groans at the predicament he has landed Stiles into, “Did you send it to the garage?”

“Yeah, I did,” replies Stiles.

“Then the fastest they can fix that is probably tomorrow. Jesus, and here I thought people would be thrilled to see you,” Stiles snorted at the remark, not really on board with that idea, “But enough about the state of my car, what’s this about you being a part time teacher?”

“It’s just part time. I won’t be staying here for long anyway,” answers Stiles, “and there’s nothing much to do here in your home, so . . .,”

“I get it,” finishes Jackson, “We’re sorry we couldn’t give much about it, but you know. Beacon Hills isn’t really the place to do a lot,” Stiles nods in agreement. Beacon Hills really isn’t the place to do fun, to be honest. If you’re looking for a place to just live a simple life free of worries (well, not really) and have the simplicity, Beacon Hills is as good as it can get. It’s not like Valencia, but it’ll do just fine. No celebrity or paparazzi are here to bother the neighborhood.

“Look, we’ll send in some more money for you to take care of yourself, and the car,” says Jackson. Stiles is tempted to decline such offer but is cut off by Jackson saying, “And don’t say you don’t need the money. Just think of it as repayment for you doing all this. Most are here for different reasons,” Stiles reluctantly nods at his words, and he bids goodbye to him before ending the conversation. He sighs at sits down after lowering the phone.

The walk to the garage isn’t that hard, and most of the people have left Beacon Hills for recreational activities, and among other things. He has never left Beacon Hills for that purpose, and mostly needn’t, since most of his activities back in the day only require only the internet, where most of his knowledge comes from. The neighborhood screams housekeeping, as he can see some seniors, and middle aged ones tending to their porch, or just frolicking by having conversations with each other. The way they sit down on the chair with their smiling faces and boisterous laughter bring Stiles to envy, wishing that he and his dad were the ones sitting down on that porch, relishing the bonding.

He reaches the garage and a familiar vehicle is parked there. He walks in closer to see the Porsche being repaired, with the windows already intact and newly tinted. He sees the mechanic repairing industriously with the tires, a job that will take little time to do. The real problem is the body, where the scratches are plain to the naked eye. The mechanic greets him, with the two discussing on the prospect of Jackson’s car. The repair will be quick, and Stiles pays him, with the mechanic lighting up when Stiles refuses to take changes.

“I reckoned I see you here,” says a voice behind him. Stiles turns to see Derek, clad in casual clothing. His clothes look snug, with a Henley documenting his torso just like his formal ones. He’s wearing jeans and the hair of his goes up in a signature spike. The mechanic walks away, taking his leave and continuing with the repair.

Stiles walk out of the garage, where the dissonance of the interior is lessened, and the screeching, whirring and scratching of the metal can no longer disrupt or drown their hearing and voices. Derek walks out of the garage, with his bright look almost abiding when he steps out.

“Hey,” calls out Derek. Stiles hasn’t put much thought to the idea of the receipt he received from Derek last night, and he sure has no idea what to say about it. Being picked up by a guy is a department he has not ventured in, and to talk about it brings an unsettling feeling in his heart, more to awkwardness. And despite his inexperience, he can surely deduce that when someone gives you a phone number without telling a person, and also at a sneaky kind of manner, its intention usually inclines to the intimate side.

He turns to Derek in reply and Derek pockets his hands, “How are you?”

“Been better,” replies Stiles.

Derek nods at his reply, almost glad that Stiles is fit as a fiddle. “That’s good. Um, you hungry? Coz I was wondering if you want, we could walk and go out for lunch, and you know, talk?”

Stiles blinks at him; his mind a little slow to process things. Not attempting to being presumptuous or anything ill, but did he just ask him out? He scans Derek’s face for any leg pulling and all he can see is the same tone that he used yesterday, “There’s no room for me to decline is there?” he replies. One night is enough to tell him that Derek can be importunate, and is not afraid to show it too.

Derek’s cheeks tint pink, “Busted,”

Stiles looks away, his lips almost threatening to smile upon hearing his sheepish confession. He looks back at Derek with a small annoyed head shake and says, “I’m paying this time,”


	19. Melissa

The diner isn’t crowded today, probably because people have gone out of Beacon Hills, for their outings and family bonding. Derek and Stiles sit in the diner with their noses buried in the menu, where another choice will be made. Same place, different time. Stiles, as usual, takes his time to order his food, not really sure what kind of food really suits the afternoon. Usually, he will settle for a sandwich at home, but he’s not at home this time.

Instead, he’s with Derek, who’s persistent as fuck.

“So what are you having?” asks Derek, who’s eyes are still fixated to the menu. Stiles doesn’t look back, but hears the question. Honestly, Stiles has no idea what to order, with his mind wracking for a concrete choice, and Derek seems to understand the feeling, since his mind too is unable to make a choice. “Why don’t we just share a pizza? Makes it less complicated,” he offers.

Stiles raises his head to meet Derek’s eyes, and nods with them ordering milkshakes as their beverage of choice. The waiter takes their order, and her signature googly eyes make way to Derek. Derek only smiles at her, before meeting his eyes with Stiles. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice Derek’s blissful ignorance as his eyes are trained to the outdoor, where cars barely pass the streets, and probably don’t need to, since the heart of the town is nearby most of the neighborhood, unless you live far, of course.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” asks Derek with a smirk. The waiter has long left, and Stiles glance to see his amused eyes. Stiles simply shakes his head, citing himself as a quiet man. “You should, you know,” says Derek. Stiles gives him a questioning look, unsure of his statement, “Talk. I mean,”

“I don’t really know what is there to talk about,” replies Stiles.

“Come on,” replies Derek with a relaxed surfer’s tone, “There’s a lot to talk about. Like favorite color, nickname and the etcetera,” he continues. Stiles doesn’t reply to the man, and instead fixes his eyes to the outside once more, ending the conversation. Derek scoffs with a smile, like he’s not understanding why this guy is being so elusive and enigmatic yet interesting at the same time.

The pizza comes in with the waiter’s saccharine voice talking to Derek. Although he may not see the conversation, Stiles can hear the intention of the lady being all sugary sweet to Derek, and wonders why women these days have to beat around the bush (pun intended) to get their point across. He can also hear Derek giving a casual talk, with no trace of flirting in his voice. It’s either because he’s clueless to her flirting, or maybe Derek simply has no interest in her.

Stiles gleans that it’s the former.

“Hey,” calls Derek. Stiles turns to him. Derek lifts a slice of pizza to him before saying, “Let’s eat,”

With Stiles paying the entire meal as promised, the two leave the diner without a word muttered. Stiles feels at least even with Derek knowing that he has paid for the meal without protest from the tall man. He’s gotten his receipt, and this time, its sure as hell devoid of any written phone number. Stiles has no idea what to do with the phone number on the receipt that he has foolishly kept at home. Throw it in the trash? Stiles doesn’t know the real answer.

He doesn’t even know why the man has taken such an interest in him. As far as Stiles is concerned, he’s still preoccupied with several items, one being his grief towards his late father. He hasn’t gone back to his real home either, and the thought of returning there only makes him feel more unsettled than before, especially when he has people whom he knows going to remind him to settle some items there.

“Stiles?” says a feminine voice. Stiles looks up, breaking his thread of thoughts to meet his eyes with the person calling him. Melissa McCall. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of her. She hasn’t aged a day. Well, almost. Her brunette hair is still dark as usual, not showing any hints of aging, and the complexion of hers is only marred by the permanent eye bags. Being a head nurse must have its perks, right? _Wrong,_ Stiles thought.

“Melissa?” replies Stiles dumbly. He doesn’t expect to see her in the streets of Beacon Hills, let alone in the daytime. The hospital is always teeming with patients that require the assistance of the nurses and to see her outside of her scrubs - besides her house - is a sight for sore eyes. She’s walking empty handed, as if her day is all about taking time for herself, and that may be so.

Melissa closes up on him, and hugs the 26-year-old tightly. Stiles, still in awe, tries to return the hug as best as he can, but seeing her just by sight only makes him number than before. Scott hasn’t returned, and the idea of him seeing him with Melissa will probably multiply the numbness that Stiles’ body has secreted like hormones.

She pulls back and inspects the man that is as good as being his surrogate son. She smiles at Stiles’ youthful appearance, as if his days in college hasn’t made a dent towards his body or mind. “You haven’t changed,” says Melissa. Stiles gives a folded smile, half-agreeing with the sentiment. The appearance may not have changed but probably his mind has. If anything, Stiles has changed, and probably with great finesse too, as his looks betray the deep emotions that harbor deep beneath Stiles emotion.

“Hey, Melissa,” he replies, “How are you?”

She gives back an affectionate smile, “I’m good, Stiles, but seeing you back in Beacon Hills? You should have come by. How mighty rude of you to not tell me of your return,” she jokingly says. Stiles chuckles at the rejoinder, and almost forgot that Derek is actually with him.

“Oh, this is Derek. Derek, this is Melissa McCall, mother of a friend of mine,” he says with a rushed tone, guilty of neglecting the formality. Derek shakes hands with Melissa, who returns the gesture with open hands. “Derek’s my colleague in school,”

“School?” asks Mellissa.

“Yeah,” says Stiles, “I’m working there part-time,” He really doesn’t want to go through the real reason of why he’s here, especially when a stranger like Derek is in the picture, “Long story,”

Melissa nods understandably, and smiles at him, ending the subject for the moment. “It’s really good to see you. I think Scott will be really excited to see you,” Stiles nods good-naturedly at her, again, half-agreeing with her assumption that Scott will be excited to see him. Well, the new him, specifically.

“I hope so,” replies Stiles.


	20. Another Interloper

Stiles and Melissa ends their conversation with a hug, with Melissa hoping for Stiles to come and visit her house when he has the time. Stiles assures her that he will, when Scott comes back. She even gives a nod and smile to Derek and walks away with alone. Derek hasn’t said anything during the conversation, letting the two have a heart to heart with each other. Stiles would have thought differently, and at least a cut in from Derek will do the trick. However, his presence is the only thing that will suffice for a rushed conversation.

They talked about small stuff, with Melissa being the head nurse and Scott being healthy and all. Melissa has also tread carefully around his life, and so far, Stiles has been amenable enough to give some details that didn’t rehash his internal problems.

Stiles walks home, with Derek tailing behind him like some bodyguard. They have not said anything to each other, and Stiles wonders if Derek has anything better to do with his spare time besides tailing people like it’s his life mission. He passes by the same street, and with the sun nearing to sunset, Stiles amps up the speed for home, only by a small margin.

He reaches Jackson’s home and stops at the pavement leading to the said house. He stops, looking at Derek, who smiles when his hazel eyes meet with Stiles’ brown ones. “This is me,” he replies.

“The Whittemores?” replies Derek, a little astounded. Stiles’ probably more astounded, wondering how Derek has knowledge of them, “I didn’t know you were friends with them,”

“Yeah,” replies Stiles tersely, “We were in the same year back in high school,”

“Oh,” understands Derek, “So, where are they? Heard they cancel their wedding like last year,”

Stiles can’t help but feel rueful at the fact that they have cancelled such a momentous event all because of his absence for the past 2 years. He swallows the guilt with effort and replies, “In the UK. Lydia has gotten a promotion there, so they will be moving there,”

“Don’t you have a home here?” asks Derek. Stiles can’t help but feel a slight irritation of the interrogation. Sure, asking people on their well-being is one thing, but treading on some dark - or close to one - spots only bring an unhealthy side to Stiles.

“I’ll see you in school, Derek,” prevaricates Stiles. He walks towards the door of the house when he feels a grip on his wrist. He looks at the enclosed hand and then at Derek, “What?”

“Why are you being so elusive? I mean, sure. I can tell you’re not the sociable one, but you don’t have to shut people out,” he lectures.

Stiles releases himself from Derek’s grip, and looks at him with an almost offended look. “What makes you think I’m shutting people out?”

“The way you’re behaving whenever I talk to you. Like sure, I expected you to call me from last night, with the number written on the back of the receipt but damn, you’re a harder case to crack than those who are playing hard to get, you know that?”

Stiles mouth gapes at the judgment, unable to believe that Derek would have such audacity to think that Stiles would be the type to play hard to get. He has never showed any intimate affectionate with Derek, and even if he did, he sure wouldn’t need to show it, particularly at a time where he’s not moved on from some things. He breathes in and walks to him, nearing his face to Derek. He lowers his voice by a few octaves, “You don’t know anything about me, and you should just stay the hell out of what you don’t know, Derek,”

For an attempt in threatening, Derek sure doesn’t seem fazed by it. He grips Stiles’ wrist in an almost desperate manner, “Then make me understand,” Stiles doesn’t retaliate at the gesture, stunned by such declaration and request. Never in his life has anyone said that to him. Besides the casual apology as a form of condolence, Stiles always wondered how it’d be like to tell people about the hurt that he has tried so hard to skate past.

“Please,” pleads Derek. He intertwines Stiles’ hands slowly, and Stiles doesn’t flinch from the contact. “I know you’re not usually like this, am I right?” Stiles’ eyes gaze to Derek’s chest, his eyes too ashamed to admit it in the eyes of another. The gaze justifies Derek’s judgment and he continues, “Talk to me,”

Stiles contemplates on the prospect of telling him. Maybe it is a good thing, letting it all out to someone. Someone whom he can confide it too. However, wouldn’t that make him more vulnerable that before. Wouldn’t that change his perspective of human nature? He looks at Derek with a hardened expression and untwines of his locked hands with Derek’s.

“I’ll see you in school, Derek,” he says, before walking away into the house, leaving the tall man standing dejected.


	21. Rift

Monday couldn’t come as quickly as it can, and Stiles wakes up to the sound of his alarm. He rubs his forehead in exhaustion, before sitting up and turning his torso deliberately to hear the cricking of his lower back. The popping of the sound is audible and almost haptic, with Stiles giving a sigh at the feeling. He pops his neck, and then gets out of the bed before getting into the bathroom with a towel in hand.

He undresses his night clothes, and walk in with the hot steaming water all ready to go. It hits the body of Stiles, and he sighs out a satisfied sough, the tension leaving him almost immediately. He stands there after coating his body with soap and bubbles for a moment, before turning the valve off, ceasing the flow of water. He dries himself automatically, and then walk out, taking the ironed clothes out of the wardrobe for fitting. He grabs a wife beater and a pair of brief; then wears it, feeling the thin and soft fabric loosely hugging his torso. He grabs the plum colored dress shirt, and wears it, before wearing the slacks. He uses a leather belt and hooks it around his waist.

He hangs the towel, before going into the kitchen. He takes out a box of cheerios and a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. He doesn’t feel the mood of having any poultry in his system for now, so he settles with the traditional cold bowl of cereal. He eats it, and chews his contents with an audible crunch. He finishes quickly before washing the bowl.

He leaves the house without any means of transport, and the car that is under repair doesn’t come round until Wednesday. Getting a new body to replace the scratched ones can be painstaking, and Stiles figures that a slow walk to school might be an excuse for cardio. Besides, the principal of the school sees little reason to detain him for being late since his reason is more viable than saying his dog taking the keys away.

He passes by the houses, and could see some students walking to the buses, to which Stiles ignore. He has nothing in his hands, since most of his tools are at his desk. He makes way to the small town in Beacon Hills, and waits patiently for the traffic light to turn green for him to cross.

Before he could even cross the road, a black Camaro comes into view, impeding Stiles’ effort to reach the school. It takes no accessible skill to figure who the driver is, and the tinted window lowers down to reveal Derek inside. Stiles tries to walk away from the vehicle, which only prompts Derek to move his car a bit to the front. He tries again, this time from the back, but fails when the black vehicle reverses. Stiles clenches his jaw in frustration. He doesn’t this form of drama in the morning.

“Get in,” says Derek curtly. Stiles doesn’t say anything, and enters the vehicle without any form of protest. As long as Derek exists with a stubborn mind, almost all of Stiles effort will be squandered.

The Camaro makes way to the school in good time. And from the view of it, Stiles could see the students arriving the building and having small talk with their friends and classmates. He watches as the kids pass by without sparing a second glance at Derek’s car, as if they have grown accustomed with his exclusivity. The car parks in the teacher’s section, and Derek turns the ignition off, ending the running motor mechanically.

Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt, and murmurs a cursory thanks to the older man. He opens the door, only to find out that the door has been locked. He tries again, only to be met with the same result. He looks at Derek, who’s expressionless face stares at the window without making a single movement. “Derek, open the door,” he asks politely. Derek doesn’t do as told, and Stiles gives a scorned look at his inactivity. He bends over to the other side, with his hand extending to unlock the door from the driver’s seat but Derek grabs his wrist before Stiles could meet success.

“Derek, what the he-,” he starts but is met with a pair of lips smashed onto his.


	22. Vibrations Of Tremors

He can feel the soft stubble that brushes against his mandible and Stiles closes his eyes when the lips bravely make an assault on his. Derek grips his wrist tightly, not wanting Stiles to shove him back to his seat. Stiles could feel his retaliation betraying him, when the lips that land on his massages the nerves in there. Derek moves his other hand to cup Stiles’ jaw for better angle, and Stiles’ free hand is constricted by the small space. He tries to make his hand towards Derek and could almost feel his intention to push him back waning but pulls through when he shoves him back with effort. His effort, however, didn’t meet his desired result when Derek’s body move to grip his other arm.

Stiles attempts to meander from Derek’s grip and kiss, but could feel his body being a defector to his mind. His body subconsciously relaxes at the kiss, and the clandestine swipe of Derek’s tongue only solidifies the treachery of his body. Derek finally pulls back, leaving Stiles’ lips swollen red. He relaxes his grip towards Stiles and Stiles himself feel giddy of the loss of air around him.

“We should get to class,” says Derek before unlocking the door. His nonchalance towards the entirety make out baffles Stiles and when Derek alights the vehicle without any further words, Stiles huffs out a frustrated - but nonplussed - breath, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He finally alights the vehicle and slams the door shut. He tries to look composed, feigning indifference towards what had just happened in the car. Derek seems to fare way better than Stiles, as he walks past the students without sparing a glance that will break his character.

Stiles walk past the students, with them just as invested with their conversation, talking nineteen to the dozen. He goes in the office as quickly as possible, before punching in his card before starting his day in school. As he walks past the other teacher’s tables and rooms and closer to his table, he begins to feel queasy as he sees Derek sitting down and relaxing before taking his book. He stands there, watching as Derek wears that mask of calm and tranquility. He glances at Stiles, who stares at him with contempt.

Not wanting to risk his catatonic feelings becoming haptic and real, he walks away from his table, and out of the office. Never in his life has he begins to hate the idea of sitting next to someone who thinks he could make a difference. The hero complex isn’t something he needs in his life, and the more Derek exudes it, the more Stiles begin to think that the annoyance is just part of him. The anger bubbling in him could almost explode and just seeing Derek trying to help him once more will only make him feel used.

He goes into the staff’s bathroom, where he roughly rolls his sleeves before turning the valve and let the water gush out at its highest. He cups his hands and washes his face with brutality, and could almost feel his face turning red by the minute. He almost wishes that he’s back in university, where the seats are of free selection. If he hates the person that he’s sitting next too, or doesn’t like the angle of how things present, he could just switch seats, with no compunctions or qualms from any party. But this is different. He has to sit at the goddamn seat for the rest of his tenure, with Derek Hale.

He stares at himself in the mirror, with his eyes blinking from time to time to get the water droplets out of his lashes. He can see the sanity leaving his eyes, and if he were to leave it untreated, he could almost end up being in the asylum, only this time, it’s him working out to be normal, rather than working for people to get normal. Such a fall from grace if he were to end up there, considering that he has just received a Master’s.

He washes his face frantically once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not the end you guys. It's still ongoing, to those who are still wondering.


	23. Whispers

The first bell rings for the day, and Stiles doesn’t begin his work until the third period, which means ample time for him to just relax and get his mind cooled down before anything unexpected nor uncalled happens. He doesn’t want to test the waters of knowing whether Derek is in the staff room, and he probably is in his class, but he isn’t going to risk it. He walks out of the bathroom with his soaked face, and heads out to the field, where he knows a class probably having gym class. He’s not in the mood for watching but maybe the fresh air will turn things around for him. Hopefully.

He walks past the classes, and heads straight to the green field. The almost unreal grasses still remain the same, where memories of his lacrosse days and haptic contact with the nets and grass bring some nostalgia that he was still blissfully in rather than wallow in his grief. He sees a group of boys jogging around the field, and he smiles softly at the memory where Coach Finstock used to harangue him and Scott - basically the whole team - to run around the fields at a ridiculously amount of times.

He sits at the bleachers, where he breathes in the cold morning air, and watches and listens the shouting from Coach Finstock. He descries the same goal posts, the same equipment that they have either borrowed or bought placed neatly on the fields. He used to remember being such a cheapskate, that Scott and himself had to tie the strings of their lacrosse sticks as a desperate measure for saving money.

“I knew I’d find you here,” says a voice. He groans internally when he sees Derek coming up to him, with his hold clothes covered in a long trench coat. He offers Stiles a jacket, to which he gives a reluctant thanks at the older man. The two sit in silence, with Stiles making sure that distance is a protocol that he needs to follow. “My dad used to ask me to join the lacrosse, coz he used to be captain, but I opted for basketball. Worth it,” he says. Stiles doesn’t know why he’s telling him that, considering that he spent almost all of his year in lacrosse doing nothing but sitting on the bench, warming the aforementioned seat.

“You know, it’s not wrong to open up,” he says. Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes at the advice, and stands up before Derek could go any further with this useless and pointless cajoling. He doesn’t get far, however, when Derek clasps his hand onto Stiles’ sleeved one, impeding his progress.

“I have classes to teach, Hale,” he says sternly.

“No you don’t,” retorts Derek, “Your classes don’t start till third period and more importantly, we’re already on first name basis, so don’t try and use the surname as a form of making me stopping you to open up to me,”

“You have a habit of being pushy, you know that?” he asks.

Derek gives him a grin that unnerves Stiles, “I may have been told by my sister,”

“Well, your sister is quite shrewd in making such judgment,” he says. Derek laughs at Stiles, bringing Stiles to irritation over the man’s intention. “What’s so funny?”

“This is the longest I have ever seen or heard you talk, so at least I’m making progress,”

“Well, don’t hold your breath,” he answers. Derek chuckles again at the remark, and Stiles huffs irritably at him. He still doesn’t let go of Stiles’ wrist and the more they spend their time at the bleachers, the more he reluctantly concedes into sitting down, hoping that Derek will let go of him. Derek does, in fact, let go of him, and the two sit in comfortable - more to Derek - silence. Stiles watches as the students leave the field, probably because the bell is about to ring.

“Guess Finstock has wasted most of his time asking them to run than actually play,”

Stiles hums in response, “That’s just him in general. It gets worse in the afternoon,”

“Striker?” asks Derek curiously.

Stiles scoffs a laugh, “Benchwarmer,”

“Sucks to be you,” he remarks.

“Yeah, well. Everything sucks these days,” he remarks pessimistically.

“You’re not usually like this, huh?” asks Derek. Stiles knows where he’s going with this, but in Stiles’ mind, he guesses it won’t hurt to be vague about it rather than shut him away. Shutting him away only engenders the annoyance more and he will have to endure his time in Beacon Hills if he does ostracize him. He shakes his head slowly, his eyes not turning to him.

“I just don’t like going through the memory lane,” he argues weakly.

“Come on, every past has something that’s not worth treading. I have some things that I don’t like to share either,” replies Derek, “I wanna hear it. But only if you want to,” Stiles looks at him, his feelings conflicted as Derek just holds the sincerity in his words.

Derek sees the shift of mood in Stiles’ eyes, and holds his hand, locking his fingers in it. The field is vacant, and there are no students roaming the area due to their classes. Stiles doesn’t withdraw his hands from him, and instead strokes his thumb softly against Derek’s hand. Derek smiles at the gesture and tightens his grip in response.

“It’ll be slow,” says Stiles, his voice soft, and all Derek does is nod, his mind relieved and happy that Stiles is willing to open up, even if it does mean taking a while.


	24. One Night

Things between Stiles and Derek have grown slow, with Stiles being tentative and hesitating of him overcoming this imaginative friend that takes shape of grief. It has been two days since the two have talked normally at the field, and he wonders how is he going to open up between the two. These days, it has all been about staying at home and going to work, and his mouth is almost ready to give the automatic response of saying ‘no’ whenever Derek asks him out, to which he tries hard to restrain. If he wants to open up, then it’ll have to be slow.

The television runs silently, with the images being the only thing that Stiles’ pay attention to. He tilts his head in boredom, staring at the screen without bothering to raise the volume to make sure he hears it. Reading the news headline and looking at the images are already boring him enough. He fiddles with the phone in his hand, and sits at a lazy posture that not even his demons in his head can fight it.

A knock on the door breaks his trance, and he sets his phone down on the table. He gives a frown at the sudden visitation. No one really visits him, and usually the closest people that visit him are either the newspaper boy or the mailman, who never bothered to share their day with him. Or anyone, for that matter. Okay, maybe not for the mailman if you know him for life. Friday night isn’t usually the time for either the mailman or the newspaper boy to perform their jobs.

He opens the door and his eyes widen slightly at the sight of a bespectacled Derek, standing with a patient look on his face. His hands are in his pockets, and the casual aura that is exuding from him brings more confusion as to why Derek is even here. It’s not that Stiles is repulsed by the sight, it’s just . . . puzzling to see someone, who works with you and then out of his formal attire. He is wearing a tee shirt with a maroon cardigan covering his muscled arms. He’s sports a pair of jeans, black ones at that, and a pair of sneakers. The sight is . . . intriguing if Stiles has the ability to describe it. It’s like his mind is raising an eyebrow at him for the attire, and that did little to Stiles, seeing that he’s currently wearing nothing but a white tank top with a pair of grey sweatpants with the number 2014 written in bold white letters by his pocket.

“Derek,” says Stiles. He meant to phrase his name in a question, but it comes off as a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

“Stiles,” replies Derek with the same tone, obviously mocking him. He gives him a shit eating grin that only makes Stiles more puzzled than before, “I was wondering if I could come in?”

Stiles stares at him as if he has grown another eye or limb, and with a confused frown, he shifts his body to the side and widens the door open for him, allowing the man to enter. Derek brushes past him and the smell of cologne that enters his nose almost trances his senses. He closes the door before any signs of his awkwardness shows up and watches as Derek walks towards the living room, where he takes a casual seat like he’s made himself at home without the host saying anything.

He looks at Derek, and the silence that is only filled by the soft murmuring of the television only tenses the atmosphere. Derek looks at him and scoots himself to the left of the couch and the pats the sofa nonchalantly for him. Stiles narrows his eyes in further confusion before taking the offered seat as his own. The least Derek could do is at least text him or something, and that’s when Stiles’ realizes that Derek has given him his phone number but being the brooding man that Stiles is now, he has little decency as to give the number a missed call or a text to him.

What he didn’t expect next is the fact that Derek taking the remote and switching the channels with his hand and the other draping at the back of the sofa to hold Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles stiffens at the contact but with the hand squeezing his shoulder as a means of coaxing him to relax, Stiles relaxes substantially, his mind now programmed that Derek’s here with no ill intentions.

Derek sighs contently when the younger man relaxes and he gives an amused “Oh,” when he switches to a movie channel with The Dark Knight Rises playing for free to national audience. They sit in silence, letting the storyline doing the talking for the both of them. It has been some time since Stiles has watched or treated himself to a movie, and the idea of Derek being next to him is another surprise that he hasn’t expected himself to involve in.

The movie drags on, with Stiles’ mind feeling the exhaustion creeping in like a drug being administered through his elbow. The hand that is placed on his shoulder never leaves him and slowly, Stiles can feel himself dozing off halfway to the movie. It’s as if the combination of the movie and the contact makes him want to let the dark abyss take his sight.

•

He remembers seeing a figure of his dad at home. His real home. His dad beckons to Stiles to return home and the thought of his father pleading him silently to come home only sends him a shiver down his spine. The sounds of his father’s voice not from his lips but from the air only blacks out Stiles’ entire vision only sends his body trembling.

Stiles wakes up suddenly, and finds himself on the bed; his body all sweaty and his hair partially damp. He groans and wonders when did he arrive on the bed. The last thing he remembers is watching The Dark Knight Rises with Derek, and the mental mention of Derek’s name only rises Stiles out of the bed as he searches for Derek. He doesn’t seem to be on the bed, and he quickly pads himself outside of his room. He clamors down the stairs and it’s only when he reaches the living room, does he find the said man on the couch, his attention focused on the television screen.

Derek turns his head to Stiles, his face completely masked with worry when he sees Stiles’ standing with fear in his eyes. Stiles’ relaxes when he sees Derek and Derek shuts the TV off and approaches Stiles. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Had a nightmare and you weren’t there so. . .,” he trails off, embarrassed that his sleepy thoughts yet awaken thoughts has led him to impulsively say such words out of his lips. He can feel his cheek turning pink at the indirect confession and Derek smiles at him, before holding his hand and intertwining them. He leads him up to the stairs, and Stiles follows suit. As far as confessions go, he really wants to go back to sleep. He can’t afford to start having symptoms of insomnia at this moment. “I just couldn’t sleep,” he mutters softly behind him.

Derek turns around and doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just pulls and leads him back to his room.

Goddamn is the only thing Stiles could ever say. For the past 2 years, he has never been so vulnerable until he has reached home. Perhaps it’s his neglect of his own home that causes him to not even bring himself to the home that he has dreaded to even set foot on. He mind as well just place a sign to let rather than abandoning it for the sole reason of wanting to grieve. He hates how much he has fallen. All he thought the can ever do is cave in, and not allow anyone into his sordid life. Goodness how that has changed when Beacon Hills and Derek come in.

The room that he has almost spent a month living in, has so far remains untouched, with little to no mess present in the area. The only thing that looks like a mess is the bed, with the duvets all crumpled and unconsciously rumpled. Derek opens the door, pulling the sluggish body into the room, and lays Stiles onto the bed slowly after letting go of his hand. He lays the body onto the bed gently, and Stiles sighs upon the soft contact.

Though dark, Stiles can see Derek attempting to leave the room. He reaches his hand out in the air, and with the brush of his fingertips does Derek feel that his attention is needed. Derek turns around and Stiles mutters out a weak voice to ask him to stay with him. With a sigh, Derek turns back and Stiles’ scoots to give him space on the bed. Derek lays beside him, without thinking, Stiles wraps his arm around Derek’s chest and waist, like a child hoping for his mother to be the only method of mitigating and by extension, banishing his nightmares. Derek is clearly surprised, but doesn’t complains as he touches Stiles’ forearm gently, and sighs himself to sleep.


	25. Ask & You Shall Receive

Groaning seems to be a tradition people do these days whenever people wake up from a good sleep. Stiles’ is no traitor to that concept, as he gives a muffled groan when he feels his eye opening by its own volition. His hands wrap around Derek’s midsection and as he opens his eyes more clearly and wider, he only sees a white tee shirt in front of him. The idea slowly comes into his mind, however, as Stiles realizes that it’s Derek who’s wearing that white tee shirt.

Crap, says Stiles mentally. Derek Hale is on his bed, and his arms are draped over his waist. Tentatively, he moves his hand across his defined chest, and slowly drags his fingertips across the clothed torso. He’s not surprised that Derek would almost be built like a stone wall, but the idea of touching it is far different from actually imagining it. He spreads his palm across his stomach, feeling the soft crevices of his torso and Stiles’ breath hitches when he the small but haptic bumps. Derek shifts slightly and groans when he feels the Stiles’ touch and Stiles tenses, his movements not going any further.

“I’m not complaining, if that’s what you’re wondering,” moans Derek. Stiles’ cheeks pinked at the declaration and feels his torso for a few seconds longer before pulling his arms away from the torso with reluctance. Derek chuckles when Stiles moves his hand away, and Stiles knows better than he’s not laughing at the fact that he has just withdrawn his hand. Stiles couldn’t help but blush slightly when he hears Derek’s soft chuckle and he mentally chastises himself for being that impulsive to do some feeling up on his colleague. A colleague who’s decided to spend the night with him.

Derek turns around, and turns his stare at Stiles, whose eyes seem transfixed to the ceiling. He can feel his face turning a little pinker at the stare, and somehow, Stiles’ throat feels dry for no reason. He wonders what it would feel like to feel his face, with all the scruff covering his cheeks and chin, and wonders whether all that facial hair is just an illusion to the definition that is described onto the jaw of his. He wonders too on the color of his eyes, on whether or not it stays green or gray.

“Penny for your thoughts?” asks Derek in a teasing tone. Stiles’ nearly jumps at the voice, not realizing that he’s zoned out to the extent that he’s on the bed with his co-worker right now. Derek stares at Stiles with wondering eyes, curious. Stiles wonders whether having someone around tailing you nearly every day is a sign of love, and usually he wonders whether he’s actually taken an interest in him for something.

“Just…,” he trails off, not really sure how to convey the thoughts in his head at the moment. He breathes in deeply, hoping that that alone will be enough to compose whatever words that are invisibly spiraling in his head be strung into at least one coherent sentence, “Do you like me?”

Derek looks back at him, holding his gaze into Stiles’ eyes. The pause somehow is unbearable, and somehow Stiles doesn’t really know why he had asked that question. It’s just a niggling feeling, one that he couldn’t help but want no, need an answer. The answer is better to be heard directly rather than inferring from the circumstances available to him. A minute has passed but to Stiles’ world, it almost feels like an eternity for the answer to come out of Derek’s lips. It’s nothing bad or anything, but Stiles sort of wants Derek to say yes but at the same time, he wouldn’t really mind if he were to say no. Stiles mentally scoffs at the thought because it’s true. He’s a wrecked case, and everything was wrecked until Derek came, with his intentions being innocent yet persistent. More like a niggling kind of persistence, if he could describe astutely.

Stiles’ attention perks when he sees the pupils of Derek’s eyes moving to his lips. “I thought we’re already past this?” Derek whispers. Derek’s head is moving closer fractionally and Stiles didn’t bother to move. It’s like his body wants or craves for the touch, and it’s pretty laughable seeing that just a month ago, Stiles was actually quite taciturn towards the whole opening up thing, and then a few days ago, Derek kissed him before school started, so that has to count for something, right? Derek’s lips touch his and Stiles closes his eyes when he feels them being pressed with more pressure.

He feels Derek’s hands curving up to his cheek, cupping it as Derek tests the water by swiping his tongue onto Stiles. Stiles parts his lip at the sudden cold touch and their tongues mix in the foray. They kiss slowly, yet passionately and Derek pulls back after what it seems to be hours of kissing.

Yup, there are already past this.


End file.
